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Copyright, 1912, by 
The Century Co. 



Published, June, 1912 



£CLA319033^ 



'A 
CENTENARY TRIBUTE 

TO 
CHARLES DICKENS 






CONTENTS 

CHAPTER I 

PAGE 

The Earliest Attempts in English Fiction iii 

I. Social and literary conditions — the scop — feast songs 
— sources of early fiction — Anglo-Saxon charms. II. 
Widsith — the Exeter Book — Widsith's story — its national 
traits. III. Beowulf — its age — its story — its descrip- 
tions — its three episodes — its historical basis — older 
stories in it — its construction, plot, and characters — its 
national traits. IV. Deor's Complaint — its story — its 
lyrical quality — The Wanderer' — its pessimism — its 
"travel" story — the lack of a love theme — The Seafarer — 
its conversational form — its plot — its love of the sea — 
summary of earliest attempts in fiction. 

CHAPTER II 
The Earliest Fiction of Chkistian England .... 24 
I. The Anglo-Saxon hero — Christian changes — Csedmon — 
story of his inspiration — his Biblical stories — his Genesis 
story — its Miltonic sublimity — its Anglo-Saxon tone — its 
visualization — Vision of the Rood — the warrior Christ — 
improvements in fiction. II. Cynewulf — the discovery of 
him — his Elene — its plot — its descriptions and character- 
izations — Crist — its rushing descriptions — its use of con- 
versation — its plot — its modern tone — its personal note 
— Judith — its violent story — its "woman's honor" theme. 
III. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle — Brunanburh — Maldon — 
the influence of fiction. IV. The Danes — Norman influ- 
ences — Apollonius of Tyre. 

CHAPTER III 

The Fiction of Nokman England 50 

I. The source and character of the Norman-French — Nor- 
man England — social conditions — the efl'ect of the Inva- 
sion. II. English, French, and Latin stories — minstrels 
and gleemen — the varied use of stories — folk tales — Horn 
and Evmenhild — Horn Childe — Ponthus et Sidoine — Have- 

X 



CONTENTS 

p 

lok — its homely character — Bevis of Hampton — Guy of 
Warwick — Robin Hood — Sir Cleges — merry tales — Land 
of Cokaygne — The Friar and the Boy — Tale of the Basin 
— Dan Hugh Monk — religious legends — Saints' Lives — 
The Smith and His Dame — beast fables — bestiaries — their 
ethical value — Reynard the Fox — Physiologus. III. 
Sources of greater literature — medieval idealism — Nor- 
man plagiarism. IV. The Classical Matter — British be- 
lief in Trojan ancestry — Benoit's Roman de Troie — De 
Bello Trojano — Guido of Sicily — Siege of Troy — Chaucer's 
use of the theme — Lydgate's — Caxton's — Story of Thebes 
— Boccaccio's, Chaucer's, Lydgate's, Caxton's, Shake- 
speare's, and Dryden's use of it — Alexander Cycle — its 
popularity — modernization of Alexander — immense plot 
of Alexander story — Gower's and Shakespeare's uses of 
Apollonius of Ttyre — Blancheflotir and Floris — The Squire 
of Low Degree — William of Palerne — the Nine Worthies 
— Aucassin and Nicolette. V. The Charlemagne Cycle, 
or Matter of France — its popularity among common folk 
— Song of Roland — chansons de geste — their degeneracy 
into jest-books — origin of Song of Roland — Pilgrimage of 
Charlemagne — Roland and Yernagu — Duke Euon — Spen- 
ser's, Shakespeare's, and Keats' uses of it. VI. The Mat- 
ter of Britain, or the King Arthur Legend — its advantages 
— four theories as to its origin — historical mention of 
Arthur — Geoffrey of Monmouth — contemporary opinions 
of his work — its fame — Gaimar's translation of it — Paris' 
Chronica Major — Walter Map — Wace's Brut — Layamon's 
Brut — Robert of Gloucester — Thomas Bek — Robert Man- 
ning — de Waurin's Recueil — Caxton's Cronycles of Eng- 
land — Malory's Morte d' Arthur — the crude beginnings — 
Geoffrey's improvements — the plot — Norman gratification 
— various additions — its wide fame. VII. Making the 
cycle — Marie de France — Crestien de Troyes — Sir Laun- 
val — growth of the characters — women in the stories — 
vulgar versions — The Boy and the Mantle. VIII. The 
Tristram Story — its various versions — its characters — its 
influence. IX. The Lancelot Story — its plot — demands 
of "courtly love" — its "blended life." X. The Gawain 
Story — Sir Ga/wain and the Green Knight — its Celtic ele- 
ment — various versions — Gawain's popularity. XL The 
Merlin Story — its antiquity — Merlin's precocity — rapid 
growth of the legend — Merlin's lasting fame. XII. The 
Holy Grail Story — its unifying and idealistic influence — 
origins of the grail — Walter Map's influence — Malory's 
work. XIII. The Morte d'Arthur Story — cause of the 
fall — growth of the legend — Malory's work — "the Ocean 
of the Rivers of Story." 

yi 



CONTENTS 

PAOE 

CHAPTER IV 
The Fiction of the Foukteknth and Fifteenth Centuries 104 
I. National changes — rise of the common folk — pic- 
turesque life of the day — the general discontent. II. Lit- 
erary conditions — the old and the new elements in fiction 
— tales of wonder — Friar Bacon — Friar Rush — Virgil — 
the priests' use of '"examples" — Eandlyng Sinne — Ghost 
of Guy — oriental narratives — Seven Sages — Gesta Ro- 
manorum — its elements — its weird effects — Cursor Mundi 
— its symbolism — revisions of old romances — their de- 
fects — influence of Italian writers. III. Chaucer — ^the 
scope of his literary work — The Pardoner's Tale — its 
characterization — The Nun's Priest's Tale — its moderu 
tone — its humor — Tale of Sir Thopas — its satire — Troy- 
lus and Criseyde — its analysis of character and of emo- 
tion — its likeness to the novel — Chaucer's influence on 
fiction. IV. Langland — his life and character — Piers 
Plowman — the three versions — the story — Do Well, Do 
Bet, Do Best — its lack of plan — its sincerity — Langland 
vs. Chaucer — Langland's limitations — his character por- 
trayal. V. Gower — his character — his writings — hia 
story of Florent — his popularity as a story-teller. VI. 
The decadence — Lydgate — his Chaucer imitations — his 
stories — his popularity — worn condition of the old themes 
— influence of travel and commerce — Mandeville's Trav- 
els — increasing desire for plausibility. 

CHAPTER V 
The Fiction of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries 138 
I. Foreign fiction — British protest against it — collections 
of translations — Lady Lucres — Caxton's publication of 
fiction — folk tales. II. Sir Thomas More — his character 
and career — the Utopia — its theories and pictures — its 
realism and naturalness — other stories of the Ideal State. 

III. The increase of artificialty — Lyly's Euphues — fiction 
for women — Lyly's career — the plot of Euphues — Euphues 
and His England — use of similes and metaphors — use of 
zoology and botany — Lyly's English traits — approach to 
novel of manners — sentiment analysis — rhetorical value. 

IV. Shakespeare's, Jonson's, and Scott's use of Euphuisnv 
— Lyly's imitators. V. Robert Greene — his life and 
character — Mamillia — Mirror of Modesty — Arbasto — Mo- 
rando — Pandosto — Menaphon — Repentance — his Euphuism 
— his ethical purpose — his plots — his realism — Emanuel 
Ford — Parismus — Nicholas Breton — Miseries of Mavillia 

vii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

— Two Excellent Princes — Mad Letters — The Good and 
the Bad — the germ of the society novel — character 
sketches — ^gathering of fiction elements. VI. Lodge's 
Rosalynde — his career — the plot — the charm. VII. Sir 
Philip Sidney — his life — Arcadia — its daintiness — ita 
characters and plot — its descriptions — the living charac- 
ter of the queen — imitations of Arcadia — Lady Wroath's 
Urania — influence of Arcadia. VIII. Picaresque tales — 
Thomas Nash — his characters — his realistic stories — Jack 
Wilton — use of details — its lowly scenes — Nash's imita- 
tators. IX. Thomas Dekker's realistic stories — Guls 
Borne Booke. X. Rise of English prose — Puritan influ- 
ences — French fiction — refined heroism — Catherine Phil- 
lips — Duchess of Newcastle's Sociable Letters. XI. 
Eoger Boyle's Parthenissa — Mrs. Manley — ^her indecency 
— The Power of Love — Secret Memoirs — Mrs. Behn — her 
vileness — her Oroonoko — its romance and realism — its 
plot — the "child of nature." XII. John Bunyan — his 
knowledge of men — his spiritual experiences — Pilgrim's 
Progress — Holy War — Mr. Badman — the vivid character- 
ization — the analysis — the two kinds of realism — the 
style — Bunyan's influence on fiction. 

CHAPTER VI 

The Fiction of the Eighteenth Century 192 

I. Social and literary conditions. 11. Sir Roger de Cov- 
erley — approach to the "novel" form — the hero's human- 
ness. III. Daniel Defoe — Defoe vs. Swift — Defoe's train- 
ing — his biographical work — his impersonal tone — his 
timeliness — Robinson Crusoe — sources of its realism — 
Crusoe's personality — Moll Flanders — Colonel Jack — Cap- 
tain Singleton — Defoe's pictures of immorality — Robinson 
Crusoe not a novel. IV. Jonathan Swift — Tale of a Tub 
— Battle of the Books — Defoe vs. Swift — Oulliver's Trav- 
els — its merciless descriptions — Swift's contributions to 
fiction. V. Eliza Haywood — her use of love — Betsy 
Thoughtless — its defects and merits. VI. Samuel Rich- 
ardson — his character — Pamela — its analysis — its moral- 
ity — Clarissa Harlowe — its fame — sources of its power — 
Sir Charles Grandison — the hero's nature — the ridiculous 
side — Richardson's contributions to fiction. VII. Henry 
Fielding — his career — Joseph Andreics — its character de- 
lineation — Fielding's knowledge of life — Parson Adams — 
Journey from this World to the Next — -Jonathan Wild 
— Tom Jones — its plot — its characters — its vigor — Amelia 
— Journal of the Voyage — Fielding's influence on fiction. 
VIII. Saia Fielding. IX. Tobias Smollett— his train- 
viii 



CONTENTS 

FAGB 

mg — Roderick R/indom — Peregrine PicJcle — Ferdinand 
Count Fathom — Sir Launcelot Greaves — Adventures of 
an Atom — Humphrey Clinker — savage analysis — the plots 
— the roughness, coarseness, humor — the sea characters — 
humor of Humphrej/ Clinker — French and Spanish influ- 
ence on Smollett — his gifts to fiction. X. Laurence 
Sterne's Tristram Shandy — his strange nature — his Sen- 
timental Journey — his plagiarism — his topsy-turvy meth- 
ods — the characters — his delicate art — his sarcasm. XI. 
Johnson's Basselas — its plot — its defects and merits. 
XII. Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield — his nature — the 
impossible plot — its spirit, purity, humor, characters — 
cause of its success. XIII. Hobby-riding — Johnstone's 
Adventures of a Guinea — Leland's Longsivord — Walpole's 
Castle of Otranto — Reeve's Old English Baron — Lee's Re- 
cess — Gothic and historical romances — Beckford's Vathek 
— Radcliffe's Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne, Romance 
of the Forest and Mysteries of Udolpho. XIV. The novel 
of purpose — "back to nature" theme — Brooke's Fool of 
Quality — Day's Sanford and Merton — its "new vpoman" 
— Inchbald's Simple Story and Nature and Art — demo- 
cratic fiction — Bage's novels — Holcroft's Anna St. Ives — 
his anarchy — Charlotte Smith's Desmond — Godwin's Ca- 
leb William,s. XV. The novel of manners — Griffith's 
Koran — Mackenzie's Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
and Julia de Roubigne — Graves' Spiritual Quixote — Cum- 
berland's Henry — Fanny Burney — her Evelina — its social 
pictures — Cecilia — Burney's view of men — Camilla — Ma- 
rie Edgeworth — her Irish pictures — Rackrent Castle — 
Belinda — Burney's ethical purpose — her influence. 

CHAPTER VII 

Nineteenth Century Fiction 284 

I. Social and literary conditions — romanticists vs. real- 
ists. II. Jane Austen — her calm realism — her training 
— Northanger Abbey — Sense and Sensibility — ^the "inner 
life" — Austen's methods — her characters — Mansfield Park 
— Emma — Persuasion — her use of conversation — her re- 
serve — her influence. III. Sir Walter Scott — his defects 
— reasons for his success — ^his virility — his use of his- 
tory — his romanticism and realism — his methods — his 
heroes — his social pictures — ^his gifts to fiction. IV. 
Scott's disciples. V. Bulwer-Lytton — his versatility — ^his 
various themes — his qualification — his formula — Last 
Days of Pompeii — his use of history — his teachers — his 
use of the Gothic — his loss of popularity. VI. Gothic 
revivals — Colloquies on Society — Mrs. Shelley's Frankerir 
is 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

stein — Maturin's Melmoth — Collins' Woman in White and 
Moonstone — Alice's Adventures in Wonderland — the vast 
array of themes — Irish fiction — war and sea fiction — 
"travel" stories — Scotch realism — Susan Ferrier — John 
Gait — ^David Moir — English realism — Mary Mitford — 
Harriet Martineau — E. S. Barrett — Richard Barham — 
Dinah Mulock. VII. Benjamin Disraeli — his egotism — 
the originals of his characters — his rich imagination — his 
characterization — his style — Contarini Fleming — Henri- 
etta Temple — Coningsby — Sybil — Tancred. VIII. Charles 
Dickens — his personality — his training — his animation — 
his reforming tendencies — Theodore Hook and Pierce 
Egan — Pickwick Papers — humanitarianism — Dickens' ex- 
aggerations — his inventiveness — ^his use of emotion — his 
characters — his idealism — his appeal to the average 
reader — his influence. IX. Thackeray — ^liis use of history 
— Esmond — Vanity Fair — his methods — his cynicism — his 
ethical purpose — Pendennis — its sly sarcasm — the pathos 
of disillusionment — The Virginians — The Newcomes — his 
increase of sentiment — his attitude toward his charac- 
ters — his weak plots — Esmond vs. Vanity Fair — his 
merits. X. Austen's influence — Mrs. Opie — Miss Ferrier 
— Mrs. Trollope — Baroness Toutphoeus — Mrs. Henry 
Wood — Dinah Mulock — Elizabeth Gaskell — her realism — 
Cranford — Ruth — Gaskell's influence on George Eliot. 

XI. Protest against Austen — George Borrow — Charles 
Reade — Charles Kingsley — Hypatia — Westicard Ho. 

XII. Charlotte Bronte — Emily Bronte — Jane Eyre — Shir- 
union with Lewes — her sympathy, pathos, and humor — 
ley. XIII. George Eliot — her gifts and training — her 
her accurate methods — her ethical import — causes of her 
permanent success. XIV. Realism vs. romanticism — 
Blackmore's Lorna Doone — Black's Princess of Thule — ■ 
Anthony Trollope — his protest — his characters — his real- 
istic pictures. XV. George Meredith — his lack of pop- 
ularity — his poetry vs. his fiction — his closeness to life 
— his novels — his psychology — his heroines — his humor 
and pathos — his future fame. XVI. Thomas Hardy vs. 
Meredith — Hardy's bitterness — the school of natural- 
ism — Hardy's peasant characters — his themes — the fatal- 
ism of Tess — Hardy's use of Nature — his style — his 
defects and merits. XVII. Robert Louis Stevenson — his 
romanticism — his love of chance — his characters — his ap- 
parent truthfulness — his realistic touches — his historical 
romances — his dual personality — Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 
Hyde — his group of styles — his influence. XVIII. George 
Gissing — his realism and pessimism — liis strain of ideal- 
ism — his grasp of details — the value of his work. XIX. 

X 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Various minor novelists — the scope and use of the nine- 
teenth century novel. 

CHAPTER VIII 

Twentieth Century Fiction 377 

I. Tendencies of the day — impressionism — French influ- 
ences. II. McCarthy — Lang — Watson — Barrie — Crockett. 
III. Mrs. Ward. IV. Hall Caine. V. Weyman— Hag- 
gard — Jerome — Hewlett — Pemberton — Corelli — Hawkins 
— Zangwill. VI. Conan Doyle— H. G. Wells. VII. A. 
C. Benson — E. F. Benson. VIII. Snaith — Trevena — De 
Morgan — Phillpotts — Locke — Quiller-Couch. IX. John 
Galsworthy — his lack of plot — 4iis themes — his assur- 
ance. X. Rudyard Kipling — his romanticism and real- 
ism — his character delineation — his chief merits. 

Bibliography 413 

Index: ...... i. .« is «« .s ... . 433 



XL 



PREFATORY NOTE 

The stream of fiction is hard to follow. It has its 
origin in so many sources so widely separated and so 
divergent in character, and these are in many eases so 
obscured by remoteness or by insignificance, that they 
are difficult to discover. When discovered they do not 
disclose even to daring conjecture their possible influ- 
ence upon the main current. The stream itself flows 
with many windings because turned in its course by ad- 
verse conditions or actually forced out of its normal 
channel by insuperable obstacles. It flows too with un- 
steady motion, now moving in well-defined limits, now 
submerging adjacent territory and well-nigh engulfing 
kindred forms and becoming itself sluggish in its for- 
ward movement; at other times it dashes on with in- 
explicable impetuosity and then eddies around some 
fixed point in its course. Tributaries feed this stream 
all along its course — tributaries that demand but defy 
full exploration and tempt the discoverer to lose him- 
self in the mazes of their obscure sources. The author 
of this book has succeeded well in playing the guide on 
this stream with its twists and turnings, its lulling quiet- 
ness "and restive dashes, its accretions and its losses. By 
seeing the end from the beginning he has kept himself 
from being diverted from his single purpose and has 
certainly made the journey easier for the next explorer 
that comes this way. 

Dropping the figure we may add more directly that 

xiii 



PREFATORY NOTE 

the author has amassed a wealth of valuable material 
difficult of easy access to any one, and for the general 
reader well-nigh inaccessible. This is particularly true 
of the Old and Middle English stories inherently inter- 
esting but rarely read because the originals are forbid- 
ding and the modernizations not freely circulated. He 
has subjected this, and all of his material, to careful, 
though not to studiously critical analysis and reached 
conclusions that are independent without being whim- 
sically or perversely individual. These conclusions are 
in general sane and suggestive and are set forth so di- 
rectly and simply, with so little of academic affectation 
and technical involutions, as to be readily intelligible 
and highly entertaining. 

The plan of the book is clear and is sufficiently ob- 
served to protect the author and readers alike from need- 
less wanderings; and, in spite of the irreconcilable va- 
riety of the material, the transitions have been, in the 
main, skilfully made and the whole book well articu- 
lated. "While it is not a book for a single sitting it has 
continued interest and logical connection. 

This book may be commended cordially and with con- 
fidence to intelligent readers desiring general informa- 
tion on this interesting development in literature ; to 
students requiring a running account of fiction parallel 
with their closer study; and to those pursuing courses 
designed especially for instruction and culture. 

Charles W. Kent. 
May 20, 1912. 

Charlottesville, Virginia. 



XIV 



PREFACE 

This book is an attempt to show with considerable de- 
tail the development of English story-telling from the 
fifth to the twentieth century. It might, with some ap- 
propriateness be called a study of the story-telling in- 
stinct among the English people ; for the book treats, not 
only of the masterpieces of English narrative, but of the 
crude efforts of our early forefathers. In the extent of 
the field thus covered, this volume, so far as I have been 
able to discover, stands alone. Almost every investiga- 
tion of English fiction begins with the first quarter of 
the eighteenth century ; only two or three extend as far 
back as the days of Shakespeare. The present work fol- 
lows the progress of the narrative art from the days of 
the first Anglo-Saxon songs of heroes to the realistic 
studies of life in the present day. 

Fifteen hundred years of fiction is a tremendous 
stretch to cover; but it is decidedly unfair to the sub- 
ject and to the student of literature to begin with Defoe 
and Richardson, and thus leave the impression that they 
were the first English story tellers. More, Lyly, Lodge, 
and Greene were writing fiction long before ; the British 
folk were telling of King Arthur, King Horn, and 
Robin Hood centuries before the Elizabethans wrote; 
and before the days of Arthur the Anglo-Saxons were 
relating the deeds of Beowulf. It is a continuous story 
to be begun only at the beginning. 



PREFACE 

I have entirely excluded American and Colonial 
writers. Cooper and Hawthorne were not British; 
neither are William Dean Howells and Henry James, 
no matter how much they have learned from their Eng- 
lish friends. Moreover, American fiction is developing 
such distinct traits that a study of it is worthy of a sep- 
arate volume. This I hope to write at no distant date. 

The book is not presented as a highly technical dis- 
sertation for specialists already well versed in the evo- 
lution of this type of literature. The effort has been to 
produce an untechnical narrative of the general changes 
and processes through which English story-telling has 
reached its present form. Intended not only for stu- 
dents making their first investigations in the subject, 
but also for the general reader outside the college walls, 
it is "written purposely in ''popular" style and with as 
little delay on merely scholarly details as possible. This, 
it is hoped, will not prove a disadvantage to the scholarly 
reader, while it will undoubtedly prove a distinct ad- 
vantage to those whose interest i's not won and retained 
by scholarship alone. 

I wish to express my thanks to Miss Mary Hannah 
Johnson, of the Carnegie Library, Nashville, Tennessee, 
for aid rendered on many occasions ; to Professor George 
Herbert Clarke, of the George Peabody College for 
Teachers, for his valuable suggestions; and to the 
students in my graduate class at Vanderbilt University 
for their interest and assistance while this volume was 
in the making. 

Carl Holliday. 

Vanderbilt University, 

J^ashville, Tennessee. 
xvi 



ENGLISH FICTION 



ENGLISH FICTION 

CHAPTER I 
The Earliest Attempts est English Fiction 

literary conditions 

Hamlet once declared that "the play 's the thing"; 
but he would have been much more accurate had he said, 
"The story 's the thing." All nations, savage or civil- 
ized, long for fiction, and it has ever been thus. Among 
the Greeks Homer was but a culmination of a multi- 
tude of legends and traditions that had been told about 
the campfire or in the family circle for hundreds of 
years ; Virgil found ready for his master hand a mass of 
folklore known to Romans for centuries before he sang 
his Mneid; the French with their Song of Roland and 
the Germans with their Nihelungen Lied are but further 
illustrations of the native and undying craving for great 
dreams of what might have been. "With none of these 
nations has the longing been more persistent and more 
evident than with the English. From their very birth 
— yes, before they were an organized people bearing one 
name — they called for stories. That man who could 
retell these legends in vigorous and inspiring language 
received all honor; he stood next to the king in appre- 
ciation and reverence; he was lovingly called the scop^ 

3 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the maker, the creator; he was expected to incite men 
to brave deeds and noble ideals; he was rewarded with 
liberal gifts of gold and of property; he was the ad- 
mired molder of tribal emotions and purposes. 

To us moderns it would be a weird and fascinating 
experience to glance into an ancient Anglo-Saxon feast, 
to see the king and his warriors at the table in the 
great hall, the crackling fire on stone hearths at either 
end of the long room, the smoke curling slowly through 
wide holes in the roof or lingering among the blackened 
rafters, and along the walls the stone benches where 
the long-haired harpers sat, taking their turn at sing- 
ing the deeds of old-time heroes or chanting in unison 
the brave battles and victories of their present chief. 
Every man in that hall, from the king to the humblest 
soldier, was expected to be a singer and to have in 
memory a store of ballads of olden days; and often, 
under the excitement of the music and ale, the chief 
or some warrior snatched the harp from the hands of a 
minstrel, burst forth into a mighty battle song, and 
then passed the instrument to another of the feasters 
to add to the unwritten volume of legendary lore. 

Innumerable were the stories of that day. Unfortu- 
nately, however, during the incursions of the mad-hearted 
Danes in the eighth and ninth centuries a multitude 
of manuscripts containing these ancient tales were de- 
stroyed. Still, fate was not entirely heartless; there 
remain enough shriveled parchments to show the form, 
the style, the spirit, and the ideals of our primitive fic- 
tion. In these we may trace the first rude gropings 
in that art which, more than a thousand years later, 

4 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

made the names of Scott, Thackeray, and Dickens fa- 
mous throughout the world. 

Stopf ord Brooke ^ has said : "As far as we can go 
back with certainty we find the Teutonic tribes harpists 
or singers, . . . Religion and war were the fullest 
sources of their poetry. ... At one special point 
their religion and their war . . . were combined 
into song — in the mingling of the great myths with the 
lives of tribal heroes. . . . The doings of the light 
and darkness, of the heat and cold, were made into 
mythical stories which gathered around a few and after- 
wards around many gods whom the personating passion 
of mankind fitted to the various doings of Nature. 
, . . These stories grew into legends and sagas of the 
gods. . . . But the myths thus existing took a fresh 
life in the war stories. When a great hero arose, did 
famous deeds, and died, his history grew into a saga. 
. . . Then, because wonder must belong to him, the 
Nature myths stole also into history, and the tales of 
winter and summer, of the gentle doings of the light, 
and of the battle of light with darkness, were modified 
and varied into the hero's real adventures till at last 
we can scarcely distinguish between the hero and the 
divine being. . . . Thus both the fruitful sources 
of poetry, worship and battle, gave passion and dignity 
to the character and deeds of the hero." 

The commonest things of life, however, as well as 
worship and battle, were also sources and causes of 
fiction. Even the brief charms chanted by the peasant 

1 English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Con- 
quest, p. 41. 

5 



ENGLISH FICTION 

when he was sowing or reaping often contained hints 
of legends or bits of plot pregnant with imagination 
and dramatic possibilities. The tribal medicine-man, in 
his efforts to cure the patient, shook his shield above the 
diseased man and sang defiantly to the witch-maidens, 
the Valkyrie: 

Loud were they, lo! loud, as over the land they rode; 
Fierce of heart were they, as over the hill they rode! 
Shield thee now thyself, from their spite thou may'st escape 
thee. 

Out, little spear, if herein thou be ! 
Underneath the linden stand I, underneath the shining shield, 
For the might maidens have mustered up their strength. 
And have sent their spear screaming through the air! 
Back again to them will I send another. 
Arrow forth a-flying from the front against them! 

Out, little spear, if herein thou be! 

And even the riddles that came in a later day were 
frequently in a story form; as when the moon is repre- 
sented as a young warrior hurrying with stolen treasure 
to his castle, the sun pursuing, and the night stealing 
upon the sun and destroying him. Long ago, then, 
our forefathers realized the joy of a creative imagina- 
tion, 

WIDSITH 

One of the earliest bits of fiction now existing — per- 
haps the oldest in any Germanic language — is the frag- 
ment known as Widsith {Far Away or the Far Trav- 
eler). Found in a manuscript volume, the Exeter 
Book, presented to Exeter Cathedral by Bishop Leofric 
in 1071, the present form of this story of travel is doubt- 
less a recast of some ancient lines sung probably as 

6 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

early as A. D. 400. True, it contains names of mon- 
archs who lived as late as 520 ; but these, it would 
appear, could easily have been added from century to 
century by new singers. The harpist tells of his far 
journeys, of the kings and nations he has met, and of 
how he has fired their ambition by his glorious songs 
of their deeds. "Widsith told his story; he unlocked 
his word-hoard, — he who of all men had seen the most 
kindreds and nations, and who for his singing often re- 
ceived gifts in the hall. ' ' 

Thus I traveled through strange lands and learnt 
Of good and evil in the spacious world; 
Parted from home-friends and dear kindred, far 
The ways I followed. Therefore I can sing 
And tell a tale, recount in the Mead Hall 
How men of high race gave gifts to me. 

When I and Skilling for our conquering Lord, 
With clear voice raised the song loud to the harp. 
The sound was music; many a stately man, 
Who well knew what was right, then said in words 
That never had they heard a happier song. 

So have I ever found in journeying 

That he is to the dwellers in a land 

The dearest, to whom God gives, while he lives 

Here upon earth, to hold rule over men. 

Thus wandering, they who shape songs for men 

Pass over many lands, and tell their need. 

And speak their thanks, and ever, south or north. 

Meet someone skilled in songs and free in gifts, 

Who would be raised among his friends to fame 

And do brave deeds till light and life are gone. 

He who has thus wrought himself praise shall have 

A settled glory underneath the stars. 

7 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Thus even in our oldest bit of story we find those 
traits that have been characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon 
at his best: personal bravery, the traveling instinct, 
hospitality, liberality, and an irrepressible craving for 
a fame that will carry his name down through the ages. 
The story itself is but ordinary — the brief and partly 
imaginary account of a wanderer's wayfaring — but as a 
character sketch it has a tone of sincerity and an en- 
thusiasm that are admirable. 

BEOWULF 

Doubtless the greatest story that these wandering 
gleemen chanted was the famous epic, Beowulf. As a 
tale of heroic deeds it has seldom been surpassed in the 
world's literature, and to this day, when phrased in 
modern language, it never fails to grip the interest of 
a popular audience. When it was first sung we shall 
never be able to tell. Although the manuscript of it, 
first published in 1815 by a Danish scholar, Thorkelin, 
was written probably about 950, the story itself was 
told in part as early as 450, and probably had reached 
a fairly complete form by 600. It is by far the oldest 
existing epic in any Germanic language, and in the 
characteristics of its principal hero the noblest of them 
all. 

Here we find the ideal of Anglo-Saxon manhood, and 
centering about him a mass of vigorous fiction sufficient 
for several modem novels of the most strenuous type. 
The tale opens with an account of the ancestry of 
Hrothgar, the king of the Danes, one of whose fore- 
fathers was Seyld, the tribal teacher of agriculture, 
who, as a babe, had been found sleeping on a sheaf 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

of grain in a boat floating toward the shore. And just 
here is a legend ancient of days. Moses was found in a 
grass-lined boat; Arthur is said to have come in a boat 
from **over the waters," and at his death mysterious 
women took his body in a barge out into the dark sea. 
Now, Hrothgar built a banquet-hall, a vast "mead- 
hall, ' ' where he and his warriors might feast after their 
victories. It was called "Heorot" because at either 
end hart or deer antlers thrust forth from the gables. 
Here many a drinking bout was held, and the min- 
strel's harp rang loudly. But far down in the swampy 
depths of the forest lived a monster, Grendel, a hater 
of mankind, "divided from all joy," and he, loathing 
the sound of pleasant revelry, determined in direful 
mood to destroy those that sang so heartily in the 
mighty banquet-room. Then through the darkness he 
came creeping under the moonlit fog, burst open the 
iron-bound door, and devoured many a sleeping warrior, 
and stalked away to his den, singing in gleeful triumph. 
All was desolation in the kingdom of Hrothgar; the 
broad feast-hall was deserted; there was neither wish 
nor place for revelry. 

In another land, the kingdom of Hygelac, the chief 
of the Geats, lived a youthful warrior of marvelous 
strength. His name was Beowulf. Hearing of the 
despair of Hrothgar, he went down to sea with his men 
and sailed to the troubled kingdom. Many are the 
Anglo-Saxon customs now described; the story is a 
treasure-house for the historian of early English life. 
Beownlf is met on the shore by a guard who inquires 
his business, praises his manly bearing, and then leads 
him to the village. As they approach they see from 

9 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the top of a cliff the metal roof of Heorot glittering 
under the sun, the little group of village homes, the 
narrow strip of cultivated land beyond, and then the 
gloomy forest sweeping on to the horizon. The guests 
thrust their spears into the ground before the hall — 
for no armed visitor might enter the Anglo-Saxon home 
— and Hrothgar welcomes them with stately speech. 
Then there is feasting, and gifts are exchanged, and 
Beowulf boasts of what he shall do when he meets the 
monster. 

Now comes the night. Hrothgar 's men leave the 
hall ; Beowulf and his warriors lie in sleep on the floor. 

Then from the moor under the shroud of mist, 
Came Grendel striding. Wrath of God he bore. 
Scather of men, he thought in the high hall 
To snare one of man's race. Shrouded he went 
Till he saw clearly the gold-hall of men, 
The wine-house, gay with cups; nor then first sought 
The home of Hrothgar. . . . 
. . . Journeying to the house 
Came then the being divided from all joys; 
Quickly he rushed upon the door made fast 
With bands fire-hardened; with his hands broke through. 
For he was swollen with rage — through the house's mouth. 
Then soon upon the many-colored floor 
The foe trod; on he went with ireful mood, 
Came from his eyes a fierce light likest fire. 
He saw within the hall a kindred band 
Of many men asleep, a company 
Of comrades all together; then he laughed. 
. . , Nor meant the wretch 
Delay, for at the first he swiftly seized 
A sleeper, slit him unaware, bit through 
His bone-case, from his veins drank blood, and soon 
Swallowing in large lumps, had eaten all 
10 



EAELIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

The dead man, feet and hands. Then nearer, forth 
He stepped, laid hands on the stout-hearted chief 
Upon his couch; with his hand the foe 
Reached toward him. He instantly grappled 
With the evil-minded, and on his arm rested. 

Then when the fiend realized that never "had he 
found a stronger hand-grip," his mind grew fearful 
and he longed to be away. But he might not. The 
hand of Beowulf, crushing his fingers, held him fast. 

The princely hall thundered; terror was 

On all the Danes, the city-dwellers, 

Each valiant one, while both the fierce 

Strong warriors raged; the mansion resounded. 

Not for aught would this saviour of earls 
Leave alive the deadly guest; 
The days of his life he counted not useful 
To any folk. . . . 

He that was God's foe found that his body failed 

To serve him, because Hygelac's bold kinsman 

Had him in hand. . . . 

. . . A deadly wound 

Appeared on his shoulder, his sinews snapped. 

His bone-casings burst. Glory of battle 

Was to Beowulf given. Grendel must thence. 

Death-sick, to his fen-shades flee. 

Seek his sad home, well knowing that the end of life 

Was come, the number of his days past. 

This, then, is the first episode of the story. There 
is feasting the next day; Beowulf is laden with gifts; 
the queen brings her son to receive his advice; he is 
admired of all. The banquet continues into the night; 
and then Beowulf and his men, going out into the vil- 
li 



ENGLISH FICTION 

lage to sleep, leave the hall to Hrothgar's men. But 
now from the darkness of the forest comes Grendel's 
mother, wild for revenge. Hideous is she — shaggy, mad- 
eyed, tortured with hatred. 

The woman-demon remembered her misery, 

She that the watery horrors, the cold streams. 

Had to inhabit. . . . 

So came she to Heorot, to where the king Danes 

Throughout the hall slept. . . . 

Then in the hall the hard edge was drawn. 

The sword o'er the seats, many a broad shield 

Lifted firm in hand. . . . 

One of the nobles she quickly had 

With grip fast seized, as she went to the fen, 

A mighty shield-warrior whom she killed, 
A hero renowned. 

In the morning came Beowulf wishing his host happi- 
ness. **Alas," exclaimed Hrothgar, 

"Ask not after happiness! Grief is renewed 
To the folk of the Danes." 

Enraged by the tale of horror that follows, Beowulf 
determines to go down into the watery cavern where 
the demon-mother lives, and there attack her. Sadly 
his men follow him to the edge of the lake or ocean inlet, 
where the water is so dark and loathsome that the deer 
pursued by the dogs lies down to be devoured rather 
than swim across. Beowulf plunges in, and, among 
horrid monsters of the deep, sinks to the bottom. As 
he nears the sandy floor, a great, hairy arm reaches out 
and snatches him into the cavern. Then is a mighty 
battle fought. All day they struggle; but even the 

12 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

hero 's vast strength proves unable to destroy the sinewy 
fiend. 

On her head his ringed brand sang 
A horrid war-song. 

But his trusted sword failed him in this time of dire 
need; he despaired of life. 

Then he saw 'mongst the arms a victorious falchion. 

An old jotun-sword, of edges doughty. 

The glory of warriors . . . the work of giants. 

The knotted hilt seized he, the Scyldings' warrior — ■ 

Fierce and deadly grim, the ringed sword swung. 

Despairing of life, he angrily struck. 

That 'gainst her neck it griped her hard, 

Her bone-rings broke. Through her fated carcass 

The falchion passed; on the ground she sank; 

The blade was gory; the man joy'd in his work. 

Back to outer air, back to Heorot the hero goes in 
triumph. His ship is filled with gifts. Glorious in 
fame, he sails away to the land of the Geats, the king- 
dom of Hygelac. Thus ends the second episode. 

Sixty years now pass, and Beowulf is in his eightieth 
year. The day of his last struggle against evil is at 
hand. He has ruled the Geats more than fifty years, 
and he is the admiration and fear of all his neighbors. 
In ancient days another people had lived in this land 
— a people who had all perished under some devouring 
scourge, and their prince, before he laid him down to 
die, had hidden the nation's treasures in a mound. 
This heap of gold a fire-breathing dragon had found, 
and day by day watched over it in a deep cavern. 
One morning a peasant discovered the treasure while 

13 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the dragon was away, and stole a golden cup from the 
heap. Then the dragon, in his rage, went forth upon 
the land, breathed flame upon field and village, and 
brought sorrow to all the folk of Beowulf. 

Like a true Anglo-Saxon monarch, Beowulf, old as 
he is, feels it his duty to go out against the monster. 
Thus the third episode begins. Beowulf approaches 
the mouth of the cavern ; at the sight of the dragon all 
the warriors save the young kinsman, Wiglaf , flee ; and 
there with their backs to the wall and a great iron shield 
before them, the old man and the boy fight the enemy 
of their country. The victory is theirs; but Beowulf 
has breathed the poisonous flames of the dragon, and 
death is at hand. He bids the boy bring forth the 
treasure, and, as he looks upon it, he tells the course of 
his life. Then cries he, "I thank the glorious King that 
ere I die I have won these things for my people; have 
paid my old life for them." Then, with true Anglo- 
Saxon longing for remembrance after death, he whis- 
pers: 

Bid the battle-famed build a barrow high. 

Clear to see when bale is burnt, on the bluffs above the surge, 

Thus it may for folk of mine, for remembering of me. 

Lift on high its head, on the height of Hronesnaes; 

So that soon sea-sailing men, in succeeding days, 

Call it Beowulf's Barrow; when their barks a-foam, 

From afar they make their way through the mists of Ocean. 

Thus died he, 

Of all men the mildest, and to men the kindest. 
To his people gentlest, and of praise the keenest. 

How many things of interest might be told of this 
ancient narrative! Although greatly changed and cut 

14 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

by the Christian priests who wrote it down in the tenth 
century, it still retains its wild, heathen tone and much 
of the history and tradition of our distant forefathers. 
A warrior named Beowulf really lived, was a Geat, and 
the son of a chief, Hygelac, who, according to Gregory 
of Tours, raided the Frisian shore about 520. The 
Franks pursued and killed him, and Beowulf avenged 
his death. That he reigned fifty years after his father 
is perhaps true. Mere human heroism, however, did 
not suffice for his glorification; the deeds of the ancient 
god of sun and summer, Beowa, were transferred to 
him, and before the story had been brought to England 
by the Angles he was a creature half divine. It was 
in England about 650 that the epic reached its full 
proportions ; for there and then the stories of Scyld and 
of Grendel's mother were added, and doubtless many 
other hints or portions of ancient tales inserted. In 
fact, there are several fragments of legends in Beowulf 
much older than the epic itself. There is, for instance, 
the hoary fragment about the Battle of Finnsburg. 
Finn, to bring peace, marries Hildeburh, daughter of 
Hoc, the Dane. Her kinsmen, Hnaef and Hengist, with 
sixty men, come on a visit ; but Finn, with old anger 
rankling in him, sets fire to the guest-hall. A bit of 
another manuscript, still preserved, takes up the story 
at this point. Hnaef raises the alarm: 

This no eastward dawning is, nor is here a dragon flyingj 

Nor of this high hall are the horns a-burning; 

But the foe is rushing here! Now the ravens sing; 

Growling is the gray wolf; grim the war- wood rattles; 

Shield to shaft is answering! . . . 

Now awaken, rouse ye, men of war of niine, 

15 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Ready have your hands, think on hero deeds. 
In the front be fighting, be of fiery mood. 

The fight continues five days; Hnaef is slain, and 
many of his warriors. Here the portion quoted in Beo- 
wulf begins. Nearly all of Finn's comrades, including 
his young son, have been killed, and a temporary peace 
is made. But later Finn secretly causes the death of 
Hengist, and in revenge the dead man's friends re- 
turn, kill Finn, and take Hildeburh back to her people. 

It is such fiction as this that delighted the Saxon 
heart, and the composers of Beowulf, knowing this, 
hinted at or even quoted as many of the ancient legends 
as they were familiar with. The story of Widsith was 
brought to mind ; the myth of Scyld was mentioned ; the 
legend of a swimming match between Beowulf and 
Brecca was a familiar representation of the struggle 
between summer and winter; the story of Sigmund's 
battle with the dragon, out of which grew the Siegfried 
saga, warmed the hearts of the rough listeners; the 
prince 's-treasure tradition was known to the people 
three centuries before the story of Beowulf himself. 

Thus traditions and legends, added from time to 
time, made the story dearer to those in the ale-hall, be- 
cause it retold those deeds which the rough, warriors had 
heard, as children, from the lips of aged sires. 

But what of the construction, the plot, the characters 
of this ancient piece of fiction? The story is loosely 
connected, it must be admitted; the three episodes did 
not have to occur in this way or this order in the life 
of the hero. There is entirely too much digression to 
suit modern readers; the characters undoubtedly talk 

16 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

too much; from the story-teller's standpoint, but not 
from the historian's, too many details are given. But 
these faults admitted, it is certain that each episode 
has a vigor, a rapidity of movement, a savage vehemence 
truly dramatic. The actions stand out clearly; we see 
without effort the monster and Beowulf clashing in the 
swaying hall; we hear the crunching of bones; we feel 
the tearing of sinews; we touch, with the hero, the 
horrible creatures in the dark lake ; and the fire-breath- 
ing dragon becomes a reality. These phases are uncon- 
scious victories in art. Then, too, the story is true to 
its nationality. The boastfulness and abruptness of 
speech, the decisiveness in action, the dignity of bear- 
ing, the vast physical vigor, the deep belief in fate, 
the disregard for life, the ever-present sense of gloom 
in spite of the feasting and song — these instantly im- 
press us as not affected, but entirely natural. The 
story is defective, perhaps, in that only one character 
is given opportunity to shine — no one is allowed to 
compare with Beowulf — but, then, even in this primitive 
narrative the hero shows one trait almost demanded 
in the figures of the modern novel ; that is, soul develop- 
ment. Beowulf in his old age is even more admirable 
than Beowulf in his youth. He is gentler ; he is graver ; 
he boasts less; he depends more upon actual deeds; he 
lives more for others than for himself; experience has 
made him wise and has sweetened his soul. All in all 
we have here a remarkable piece of fiction to come 
from a primitive, totally unread race, and we should 
not wonder that the deep human craving for narrative 

so long found joy in it and that the child of to-day, like 
2 17 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the early Saxon, listens with intense interest to its 
vivid account. 

deoe's complaint 

I have said that numerous old poems are mentioned 
in Beowulf. Among them is a short story of an un- 
fortunate harper — a few mournful lines entitled The 
Complaint of Deor. Long had Deor been the darling 
of the feast-hall; for none had ever equaled him in 
song. Gifts were his, lands and honors. Then came a 
rival, Heorrenda, who by his skill in music won away 
the chief's admiration and love, and Deor went forth, 
a wanderer and a beggar. He tells of the troubles of 
other men — of Weland, who was exiled and had for 
companions "sorrow and longing, the winter's cold 
sting, woe upon woe"; of Theodoric, a prisoner for 
thirty years; of tlie Goths, who had been persecuted by 
tyrants. Then he speaks of himself: 

Now of myself this will I say: 
Erewhile I was Scop of the Heodenings, 
Dear to my Lord. Deor my name was. 
A many winters I knew good service; 
Gracious was my lord. But now Heorrenda, 
By craft of his singing, succeeds to the land-right 
That Guardian of Men erst gave unto me. 
That was o'er-passedj this may pass also. 

About this venerable lay we can know little. It may 
have been sung to draw greater gifts from some sym- 
pathetic chief; it may have been created by some ar- 
tistic minstrel simply to answer the Anglo-Saxon affec- 
tion for a pathetic theme; whatever its cause, it is a 
conscious production and doubtless almost entirely fie- 

18 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

titious. Says Stopford Brooke eonceming it: "Its 
form is remarkable. It has a refrain, and there is no 
other early English instance of this known to us. It 
is written in strophes, and one motive, constant through- 
out, is expressed in the refrain. This dominant cry 
of passion makes the poem a true lyric, . . . the 
Father of all English lyrics. . . . The comfort is 
stern, like that the Northmen take." It is but another 
proof of the willingness of our forefathers to listen to 
any story, whether long or short, exultant or sorrowful, 
— just so it told the story of physical, mental, or moral 
struggle. 

THE WANDERER 

Of just such a reminiscent character is another prob- 
ably pre-Christian fiction, The Wanderer. Here the 
ancient harpist speaks again, unlocks his hoard of mem- 
ories, tells of the friends now long dead, of the glee in 
the old-time mead-hall, and of the loneliness and care 
that are his to-day : 

So it happened that I— oft-unhappy me! 
Far from friendly kinsmen, forced away from home — 
Had to seal securely all my secret soul, 
After that my Gold-friend in the gone-by years 
Darkness of the earth bedecked. Dreary-hearted, from that time. 
Went I, winter-wretched, o'er the woven waves of the sea. 
Searching, sorrow-smitten, for some Treasure-spender's hall. 
Where, or far or near, I might find a man 
Who, amidst the mead-halls, might acquainted be with love, 
Or to me, the friendless, fain would comfort give, 
Pleasure me with pleasures. 

He who proves it, knows 
What a cruel comrade careful sorrow is to him, 
Who in life but little store of loved companions has! 

19 



ENGLISH JJ'ICTION 

His the track of exile is, not the twisted gold. 
His the frozen bosom, not the earth's fertility! 

Then the minstrel tells of the loud joy in the halls 
of his youth, how now he drifts over the dark ocean, 
with "the falling sleet and snow sifted through with 
hail," and how he is lost in wonder at the fleetingness 
of all things here on earth. 

Whither went the horse, whither went the man? Whither went 

the Treasure-giver? 
What befell the seats of feasting? Whither fled the joys in 

hall? 
Alas! the beaker bright! Alas! the byrnied warriors! 
Alas! the people's pride! Oh, how perished is that time! 
Veiled beneath night's helm it is, as if it ne'er had been! 

Then come the closing lines speaking the same con- 
clusion as that later singer who had lived and suffered, 
Shakespeare, when he exclaimed as the epitome of his 
life's observations — 

We are such stuff as dreams are made on 
And our little life is rounded with a sleep. 

Says the wanderer, as he sums up the experience of 
an existence knowing both joy and sorrow: 

All is trouble, all this realm of earth! 

Doom of weirds is changing all the world below the skies; 

Here our fee is fleeting, here the friend is fleeting, 

Fleeting here is man, fleeting is the woman, 

All the earth's foundation is an idle thing become. 

Again we find the melancholy strain so long charac- 
teristic of the Anglo-Saxon race. Again, too, we hear 
the ' ' travel story, ' ' the type that is popular to this day. 
The same virtues are set forth, though in briefer form, 

20 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

as are emphasized in Beowulf, and the same impelling 
belief in Fate, in the inexorable will of Wyrd, or the 
will of God. Nowhere yet has love of woman entered 
as a theme for story; it is a day of man-fiction, when 
combat with wild nature and unswerving predestination 
is the subject that moves the spirit. 

THE SEAFARER 

The Seafarer, another story found in the Exeter Book 
already mentioned, is probably of later origin than 
Widsith, the Complaint of Dear, and similar tales thus 
far mentioned. By this time, perhaps after Christianity 
had begun its work in England, the Anglo-Saxons had 
settled down on land, had become true "land lubbers," 
often fearful of the sea and its wild storms. Perhaps, 
too, some touch of Christianity had come to the particu- 
lar author of this fiction, softening his nature and making 
him a lover more of quiet meditation than of physical 
activities. The narrative is practically a dialogue be- 
tween an old man and a youth — one of the first conver- 
sational stories, if not the first, in Germanic languages. 
"I can tell," exclaims the old fellow, 

How oft through long seasons I suffered and strove. 
Abiding within my breast bitterest care; 
How I sailed among sorrows in many a sea; 
The wild rise of the waves, the close watch of the night 
At the dark prow in danger of dashing on rock, 
Folded in by the frost, my feet bound by the cold 
In chill bands, in the breast the heart burning with care. 
The soul of the sea-weary hunger assailed. 
Knows not he who finds happiest hours upon earth 
How I lived through long winter in labor and care. 
On the icy-cold ocean, an exile from joy, 
Cut off fromi dear kindred, encompassed with ice. 
21 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Hail flew in hard showers, and nothing I heard 
But the wrath of the waters, the icy-cold way. 

But the yoimg man's longing is not changed by the 
dreary description. "Ah," he cries: 

A passion of the mind every moment pricks me on 
All my life to set a-faring; so that far from hence 
I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders. 

"Yes," replies the old sailor, "it is ever so with 
youth." Not content with well enough, not satisfied 
with the work that Fate has set clearly before him, not 
joying in domestic peace, he feels no delight 

In anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves! 
O for ever he has longing who is urged toward the sea. 

Then the young man, protesting, points toward the 
spring scene about him, "the trees reblooming, " the 
"winsome, wide plains," the "gay world," and declares 
that 

All doth only challenge the impassioned heart 

Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him 

O'er the billows far away to go. 

Suddenly the cuckoo calls from a neighboring wood, 
and the old man, as a final warning, declares that it is 
singing the sorrow it knows, — the sorrow of 

What the wanderer endures 
Who his paths of banishment widest places on the sea. 

But the boy will have none of it; the call of the sea 
is in his ears; he must away. "Behold!" he cries, 

My thought hovers now above my heart; 

Over the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies, 

22 



EARLIEST ATTEMPTS IN ENGLISH FICTION 

O'er the homeland of the whale — hovers then afar 
O'er the foldings of the earth! 

It is the old, old story — the young Englishman's mad- 
ness for the sea, the wanderlust of youth, the longing of 
the Anglo-Saxon to go forth, see, and conquer. Chris- 
tianity may have brought in the touches of Nature- 
love and the tinge of gentler sentiment ; but the ancient 
savage spirit is still there — the fighting, daring spirit 
that made a Nelson and a Wellington. 

These, then, are examples of our pagan forefathers' 
first rough attempts to tell a tale. Of love of woman 
— the main subject in modern fiction — there is scarcely 
a mention; of deeds of gentleness little is said; the 
battle-din, the rush of ocean waves, the dire struggle 
with Nature, the gift-givers in the banquet-hall, the 
loneliness of old age, the dreams of a brave past — these 
are the themes that inspired the minstrel, as in the cool 
of the morning he paced back and forward along the 
village green, composing the song for the night, and 
these the themes that at the evening feast brought the 
shouting warriors to their feet, or, mayhap, caused their 
shaggy heads to bow in sympathetic anguish. It was 
a splendid beginning — this poetry-fiction of strong man- 
hood and physically brave ideals — a kind of literature 
entirely different from the stories of sexual longing 
and love intrigues so frequently discovered in the early 
lore of the more southern nations. We should indeed 
be thankful that our ancestors loved to hear in their 
songs, of the soul 

Who would be raised among his friends to fame. 
And do brave deeds till light and life are gone. 

23 



CHAPTER II 

The Eaeliest Fiction of Christian England 

In the previous study of the beginning of English 
Fiction I endeavored to make plain the longing of our 
heathen ancestors for stories and legends, and I en- 
deavored also to show the character of fiction they de- 
manded. "We found that the principal figure had to be 
a physical hero, a man mighty in strength, powerful 
as a leader, clean of life, fearless, decisive, liberal, as- 
piring to fame. Gentleness was not an essential trait, 
though sometimes attributed to the character. Battle 
was the theme, and war was his occupation. The forest, 
the waters, and the things of Nature in general were 
enemies, elements to be feared, hated, and vanquished. 
Virility and not love was the motive or theme of all 
narrative. 

christian changes 

Now, with the coming of Christian missionaries in 
597, certain aspects of old English fiction began to un- 
dergo a decided change. Latin literature and the Bible, 
with their gentler touches, affected the national char- 
acter; teachers from among the Irish, who had before 
this become converts to Christianity, entered with their 
Celtic sentiment and lyrical love of Nature; and the 
Anglo-Saxon, without at once losing his native sturdi- 

24 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

ness, stubbornness, and bravery, acquired in addition 
a susceptibility to the lovable things of field and forest, 
and a meditativeness, a considerateness, and a sweet- 
ness of spirit not known to his pagan ancestors. Strange 
to say, his native tinge of fatalism, or pessimism, did not 
disappear under the new religion, but, instead, devel- 
oped at times among the writers into almost a melan- 
cholia. "Wyrd, the former all-conquering Fate, which 
had made them so reckless in battle, now became the 
unchanging "Will of God; and fatalism of the most 
flagrant character tinged their songs and stories. But 
the gentleness, the devout enthusiasm for noble and 
bold things, the love for all God's creatures, the desire 
for legends of divine or mortal affection and sacrifice — 
these phases readily mark a change of attitude among 
the writers of early Christian England. 

C^DMON 

The tradition concerning the first Christian poet and 
story-teller of the nation is one so calm, so lovely, and 
so tender that it might never have appealed to the rough 
chiefs of the Thor and Woden era. It is the story of 
Casdmon (630?-680?), the earliest known British poet. 
Bede, the first prominent prose-writer of the race, tells 
the legend in his famous Ecclesiastical History of Eng- 
land, written before 735. "Csedmon," he says, "was 
a brother in the monastery, especially distinguished 
by divine grace, for he used to make songs apt to re- 
ligion and piety; so that, whatever he learnt through 
the interpreters of Holy "Writ, this he, after a little 
while, composed in poetical words, and, with the ut- 
most sweetness and feeling, would produce in his own 

25 



ENGLISH FICTION 

English tongue. . . . He was a layman until of 
mature age and had never learnt any songs. Some- 
times, therefore, at a feast, when for the sake of enter- 
tainment, all would sing in their turn, he, seeing the 
harp coming near him, rose from the table and went 
home. Once, having left the house of festivity, he 
went out to the stable of the beasts, care of which was 
entrusted to him that night, and there, when he had 
fallen asleep, a form stood by him, saluted him, and 
called him by name. 'Csedmon, sing me something.' 
'I cannot sing,' said he; 'I have come away from the 
feast because I could not sing.' Then commanded the 
other, 'But you shall sing to me.' 'What shall I sing?' 
said Caedmon, and the being answered, 'Sing me the 
origin of all things.' When he received this answer 
then he began to sing immediately, in praise of Grod, 
the Creator, the verses which he had never heard, the 
order of which is thus : 

Now must we praise the Guardian of heaven's kingdom, 
The Creator's might and His mind's thought; 
Glorious Father of men! How of every wonder he. 
Lord eternal, formed the beginning. 

He first formed for the children of earth 
The heaven as a roof — holy Creator! — 
Then the middle-earth, this Ward of mankind, 
The Lord eternal, and then let arise 
The world for men — the Almighty God! 

Besides composing the hymn of creation quoted 
above, Caedmon undoubtedly paraphrased portions of 
Genesis, Exodus, and Daniel, and several parts of the 
New Testament, especially those dealing with the tempta- 
tion, crucifixion, ascension, and judgment of Christ. The 

26 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

parchment containing these poetical stories attributed to 
him, and known as the Junian manuscript because once 
in the possession of Junius (Francis du Jon), a Ley den 
scholar of the seventeeth century, was written in the 
tenth century and shows at least two styles of author- 
ship—styles so different that in even the first poem 
itself. Genesis, scholars find the work of two authors 
and therefore divide the story into Genesis A and Gene- 
sis B. The first, and perhaps original, part extends 
to line 234 and then is interrupted by Genesis B until 
line 852. 

Both versions take up the old legend of the Fall of 
Man, and in the first portions the unlearned Saxon 
poet reaches at times a sublimity almost excelling that 
of Milton's mighty epic upon the same subject. The 
proud angels in Heaven, so the tale begins, strove with 
God for possession of the universe; but the Almighty, 
"stern and grim," seized them and ''crushed them in 
his grasp." God, however, was in anguish because of 
the vacant places in His Paradise and when He looked 
forth into the Vast He found but emptiness. 

Nor was here as yet, save a hollow shadow. 

Anything created; but the wide abyss, 

Deep and dim, outspread; all divided from the Lord, 

Idle and unuseful. With His eyes upon it 

Gazed the mighty-minded King, and He marked the place 

Lie delightless — (looked and) saw the cloud 

Brooding black in Ever-night, swart beneath the heavens, 

Wan and wasteful all, till the world became. 

Then the ever-living Lord at the first created — 

He the Helm of every wight — Heaven and the Earth; 

Reared aloft the Firmament, and this roomful land 

Stablished steadfast there. 

27 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Then the story tells of the creation of man, of God's 
qoy over His handiwork, and of the beautiful home 
where the first couple dwelt. 

Fair washed 
The genial land tlie running water. 
The well-brook: no clouds as yet 
Over the ample ground bore rains 
Lowering with wind; yet with fruits stood 
Earth adorn'd. Held their outward course 
River-streams, four noble ones. 
From the new Paradise. 

As Stopford Brooke points out, there are numerous 
deserts of dull paraphrase in these works; but in those 
scenes that struck the sympathetic chord in the sea- 
loving, fight-loving Englishman, the poet's lyre becomes 
inspired and the lines sweep on with a rush and a tor- 
rent of picturesque phrases. Note, for instance, the fall 
of Satan: 

One He had made so powerful^ 
So mighty in his mind's thought, he let him sway over so much 
Highest after himself in heaven's kingdom. He had made him 

so fair. 
So beauteous was his form in heaven, that came to him from 

tne Lord of hosts. 
He was like to the bright stars. It was his to work the praise 

of the Lord; 
It was his to hold dear his joys in heaven and to thank his Lord 
For the reward that He had bestow'd on him in that light; then 

had He let him long possess it; 
But he turned it for himself to a worse thing, began to raise 

war upon Him, 
Against the highest Ruler of heaven, who sitteth in the holy seat. 

The fiend, with all his comrades, fell then from heaven above. 
Through as long as three nights and days, 

28 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

The angels from heaven into hell, and them all the Lord 
Transformed to devils, because they His deed and word 
Would not revere. . . . 

• !•! >l !.l M 

Then spake the haughty king 

Who of angels erst was brightest. 

Fairest in heaven: . . . 

"This narrow place is most unlike 

That other that we ere knew. 

High in heaven's kingdom, which my master bestow'd on me. 

. . . Oh, had I power of my hands 

And might one season be without. 

Be one winter's space, then with this host I — 

But around me lie iron bonds, 

Presseth this cord of chain: I am powerless! 

Thus the story continues, with God and Satan acting 
and speaking like early Saxon chiefs and the main 
events pictured with English environments. So it is 
with the second of the Caedmonian paraphrases; here, 
however, the story-teller, in his efforts to make the tale 
clear and vivid to Anglo-Saxon minds, takes great liber- 
ties with the Biblical text, and sweeps the narrative 
along with an energy that would quite delight the heart 
of an editor of a modern fiction magazine. See the 
drowning of Pharaoh and his army: 

The folk was affrighted, the flood-dread seized on 

Their sad souls; ocean wailed with death. 

The mountain heights were with blood bestreamed. 

The sea foamed gore, crying was in the waves. 

The water full of weapons, a death mist rose; 

The Egyptians were turned back; 

Trembling they fled, they felt fear; 

That host would gladly find their homes; 

Their vaunt grew sadder; against them, as a cloud, rose 

The fell rolling of the waves. . . . 

29 



ENGLISH FICTION 

. . . Their might was merged; 

The streams stood, the storm rose 

High in heaven; the loudest army-cry 

The hostile uttered; the air above was thickened 

With dying voices; blood pervaded the flood, 

The shield-walls were riven, shook the firmament 

That greatest of sea-deaths; the proud died. 

It is this power of visualizing that marks the great 
story-teller. Caedmon saw clearly, felt keenly, and 
joyed and suffered with his heroes, and the result is a 
vividness admirable even in this day of studied, ar- 
tistic phrasing. This same quality is evident in the 
other poetry-fiction attributed to him — his Harrowing of 
Hell, in which Christ, like the young Anglo-Saxon hero, 
shatters the gates of Hell, and bursts in upon Satan 
and the demons ; his stories of the Resurrection, the As- 
cension, the Day of Judgment, in which the Saviour, more 
a strong-willed warrior than a gentle shepherd, meets 
death with a stoic manner born of fatalism, and enters 
into His own like a Saxon chief returning to his home 
after a victorious raid. As Stopford Brooke says, "it 
is by His being the great warrior that he becomes the 
great Saviour. ' ' ^ Christianity had not yet suppressed 
the demand that the leader in any narrative must be 
physically strong and physically brave. To quote again 
from Brooke: "In the Vision of the Rood (possibly 
of Cffidmonian authorship), the young Hero girded him- 
self for the battle. He was almighty God, strong and 
high-hearted, and he stepped upon the lofty gallows, 
brave of soul in the sight of many, for he would save 

1 English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Con- 
quest, p. 101. 

30 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

mankind. . . . Sore weary he was when the mickle 
strife was done, and the men laid him low, him the 
Lord of victory, in his grave, and the folk sang a lay 
of sorrow over him — as his comrades did for Beowulf. 
It is the death and burial of an English hero. ' ' ^ The 
story-teller, Csdmon, born a heathen and dying a 
Christian, bridges the slight division between the 
heathen and the Christian fiction. He used the new 
material, but retained the old spirit; he sang of God 
and a nobler religion, but he made them both as Eng- 
lish as he dared. Here we find the activity of a militant 
Christian, and the stories, rarely meditative, are ex- 
tremely objective, telling only the hero's adventures and 
seldom the joy or sorrow of the author. 

From the story-telling view-point, there is doubtless, 
as in the heathen Anglo-Saxon works, too much digres- 
sion; the narrator suffers from a surplus of imagina- 
tion. But now, with the Biblical model before him, 
this Christian minstrel tells his tales with more unity, 
more coherence, more closely fitted and plausible se- 
quence than did his predecessors. Fiction is advancing; 
the narrator is fully conscious of the climax of his plot ; 
he converges his energies more directly upon it, and his 
vigorous characters and vigorous descriptions sweep con- 
fidently toward the final crisis. Gentler scenes there are, 
brief pauses for word-pictures too beautiful for earlier 
appreciation, rushing, lyrical verses of praise for this 
new God and His wonderful Saviour, touches of ad- 
miration for the sterner characteristics of womanhood; 
these are indeed new elements ; but seldom does the 

- English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Con- 
quest, p. 101. 

31 



ENGLISH FICTION 

old savage love of wild vigor disappear for even a mo- 
ment. The fiction-writer of those earlier Christian days 
in England had but changed the name of his ideal and 
not the nature ; Beowulf is indeed silent, but the Anglo- 
Saxon Christ speaks in the same tone. 

CYNEWULF 

After the days of Caedmon, between 750 and 825, 
there lived a story-teller, who, in the art of making 
fiction seem real, surpassed all his predecessors. That 
man was Cynewulf . Strange as it may seem, for many 
centuries we did not know even the name of this creator 
of vivid narrative, although scholars felt that a cer- 
tain group of poems of those old days must have come 
from one brain and one hand. In 1840 Jacob Grimm 
and J. M. Kemble, working absolutely independently, 
discovered in the runic letters of a poem, Elene (found 
in a manuscript of the Vercelli monastery, Italy), and 
in two poems of the Exeter Book the long-lost name 
of the singer. Little enough we know of his life. In 
the last lines of Elene he gives some brief reflections on 
his own days. He had been a minstrel, he declares, 
had taken prizes of gold, and then had known need and 
secret sorrow. "Yet he had had his joy; the radiance of 
youth had long ago been his. ' ' Stopf ord Brooke finds in 
the eighty-ninth Riddle of the poet another autobio- 
graphical hint; for there Cynewulf says: "Amid the 
folk I am famous. Loud applause rings through the 
hall when I sing to the rovers and the warriors, and 
I win glory in the towns, and glittering gold. Men 
of wit love to meet with me, for I unveil to them Y?is- 

32 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

dom. When I sing all men are silent. The dwellers 
on earth seek after me, but I often hide from them my 
path. ' ' ^ Again, he speaks of his sinful youth, of his 
repentant age, and of his watches in the silence of the 
night. It would seem, then, that this man had been a 
heathen of Northumbria in his young manhood, had been 
converted to Christianity, and had spent his mature 
years in some monastery composing poetical fictions con- 
cerning the deeds of his Saviour and that Saviour's 
saints. Four stories are almost certainly his; for they 
contain his name — Elene, Juliana, Crist, and the Fates 
of the Apostles; while some scholars would attribute to 
him the narratives Guthlac, FhoRnix, Christ's Descent 
into Hell, Andreas, the Bream of the Rood, and others. 
Whoever he was, he was a genius in the vivid recount- 
ing of legendary lore, and whether he or a school of 
his disciples wrote the numerous poems assigned to him, 
the whole movement was a remarkable outburst of im- 
aginative literature. 

It would be impossible within the limits of this study 
of English fiction to discuss each and every one of 
these numerous works. Let us observe but a few in 
some little detail and thus gain an idea of the sort of 
narrative our British ancestors enjoyed immediately 
after Christianity had touched their souls. Elene, con- 
sidered by most critics the best of Cynewulf's poems, 
takes up the old legend of Constantine's mother, Empress 
Helena, who after her conversion went forth in search 
of the true cross. The tradition is as old almost as 
Christianity itself and is found in the Latin Life of St. 

3 Brooke's English Literature from the Beginning to the Jfor- 
man Conquest, p. 161. 

3 33 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Quiriacus (Cyriaeus), the Bishop of Jerusalem, who 
becomes the Judas of the story. The tale opens with a 
description of the power of Constantine: 

Strong grew the setheling's 
Might 'neath the heavens. He was true king. 
War-keeper of men. God him strengthened 
With honor and might that to many became he 
Throughout this earth to men a joy, 
To nations a vengeance, when weapons he raised 
Against his foes. 

But at length mighty foes gather about him ; * ' a host 
is gathered, folk of the Huns and fame-loving Goths"; 
and the march to battle begins. Then the strife-loving 
Anglo-Saxon blood of Cynewulf, Christian though he 
is, boils, and, like Beowulf of old, he sings the joys of 
war: 

A war-song howled 
The wolf in the wood, war-secret concealed not; 
The dew-feathered eagle uplifted his song 
On the trail of his foes. Hastened quickly 
O'er cities of giants the greatest of war hosts 
In bands to battle. . . . 

Then rattled the shield. 
The war-wood clanged: the king with host marched. 
With army to battle. Aloft sang the raven. 
Dark and corpse-greedy. The band was in motion. 
The horn-bearers blew, the heralds called. 
Steeds stamped the earth. 

Then in the night a dream comes to Constantine — 
a vision of the cross shining brilliantly in the sky, and 
with the morrow victory comes to him. The story re- 
lates his conversion and his baptism, and then comes the 
main part of the narration. The mother, Helena, in 

34 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

her gratitude, determines to find the true cross, sets 
out on her journey, and at length arrives at Jerusalem. 
And what a journey that was ! The old spirit of Wid- 
sith and Beowulf, the old wild love for the tumultuous 
sea, burn anew ; Cynewulf is once more for the moment a 
pagan Saxon. See the bustle of departure : 

Then the stallions of the flood 
Stood alert for going, on the ocean-strand, 
Hawsered steeds of sea, in the sound at anchor. 

Over the sea-marges, 
One troop after other, hourly urged they on. 
So they stored up there — with the sarks of battle. 
With shields and spears, with mail-shirted fighters. 
With the warriors and the women — the wave-riding horses. 
Their sea-steeds, steep of stem. 

Blithe the sea-dogs were. 
Courage in their heart! Glad the Queen was of her journey. 
When at last to hithe, o'er the ocean-lake fast-rooted. 
They had sailed their ships, set with rings on prows. 
To the land of Greece. Then they let the keels 
Stand upon the sea-marge, driven on the sandy shore. 
Ancient houses of the wave. 

Thus the ancient tale continues, now dull, now glow- 
ing, now a mere paraphrase of the Latin original, now 
a living fragment of lofty, imaginative poetry. Helena 
arrives at Jerusalem ; she states her object to the Jews ; 
Judas, who possesses valuable information concerning 
the cross, is delivered up to the empress, and is im- 
prisoned until willing to tell these secrets; Judas leads 
the party to Calvary; a smoke arises showing where to 
dig; and three crosses are unearthed. Then comes the 

35 



ENGLISH FICTION 

question as to which one is the Saviour's rood; but 
Judas finds the means for absolute certainty. 

He bade them set (a) soul-less youth, 
Deprived of life, the corpse on the earth, 
The lifeless one, and up he raised. 
Declarer of truth, two of the crosses, 
. . . It was dead as before. 

Corpse fast on its bier; the limbs were cold, 
Clad in distress. Then was the third 
Holy upraised. The body awaited 
Until over it the setheling's cross, 
His rood, was upraised, Heaven-king's tree. 
True token of victory. Immediately arose. 
Ready in spirit, both together 
Body and soul! There praise was uplifted 
Fair 'mid the people. 

The joyful word is sent back to Constantine; he or- 
ders a church built upon the spot; Judas is baptized, 
ordained Bishop of Jerusalem, and given the name Cy- 
riacus; and the nails that pierced the limbs of Jesus 
are made into a bit for Constantine 's war-horse. Then 
the narrative closes with the poet's epilogue, a quiet, 
half -sad, half -joyful bit of reflective verse. 

Thus old and death-ready in this frail house 
Word-craft I wove and wonderfully framed it. 
Reflected at times and sifted my thought 
Closely at night. I knew not well 
This truth of the rood ere wider knowledge 
Through glorious might into thought of my mind 
Wisdom revealed to me. 

For SO primitive an age the plot of this story is re- 
markably steady. Uncertain, straggling portions there 
are, undeniably; but for the most part the narration 

36 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

proceeds unhesitatingly toward the scene on Calvary. 
Descriptions sometimes impede temporarily its course 
—descriptions such as those quoted of battle and sea- 
voyage ; but they are not detrimental ; they but heighten 
the vividness, the seeming reality of it all. Then, too, 
unlike Beoivulf, more than one prominent figure passes 
before us : Helena, Constantine, and Judas stand forth 
as important actors, and their words and their deeds 
seem essential to the completeness of the tale. The 
legend as told by the artistic Cynewulf begins to take 
on some of the * ' inevitableness " of a modern plot; 
events, it seems, should have happened in just such a 
manner. It is a narrative vigorous, life-like, at times 
inspiring, at times intensely interesting — a virile Anglo- 
Saxon story in a new and hitherto almost untouched, 
field. 

His story, Crist, possesses almost equal merit. No 
hesitation here, no haziness of plot, no vagueness of 
character. The now fully Christianized author fre- 
quently rushes along with his narrative ; when he stops 
it is but to burst forth in a song of prayer and praise to 
his God: 

Come now, thou Lord of Victory, Creator of Mankind, 

Make manifest Thy tenderness in mercy to us here! 
Need is there for us all in Thee Thy Mother's kin to find, 

Though to Thy Father's mystery we cannot yet come near. 
Christ, Saviour, by Thy coming bless this earth of ours with love; 

The golden gates, so long fast barred, do Thou, O Heavenly 
King, 
Bid now unclose, that humbly Thou, descending from above, 

Seek us on earth; for we have need of blessing Thou canst 
bring. 



37 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The descriptions of the fiery deluge in the Last Day, 
of the blazing and bloody cross reaching far into the 
skies, the trumpet-blasts of the four angels — these are 
but a few of the vivid touches that make this narration 
as intense and real as many of our modern masterpieces 
of short story. 

The book opens with hymn-like prayers to God and 
praise that the Christ-child is born. The mother Mary 
appears, and then follows a conversation between her 
and some citizens of Jerusalem. Here, then, we have 
dialogue — one of the rare instances in early English 
fiction — dialogue, too, that bears some resemblance to 
that form of literature which is practically all conversa- 
tion — the Drama. In the conversation later on between 
Joseph and Mary we have a selection that sounds very 
much like a fragment from a play almost modern in 
its tone. The husband accuses the wife of unfaithful- 
ness. 

Mary — Alas! Joseph mine, child of Jacob old. 

Kinsman, thou of David, king of great fame. 

In our fast-set friendship wilt thou fail me now? 

Let my love be lost? 

Joseph — Lo, now I 

Deeply am distressed, all undone of honour. 
. . . Oh, my sorrow ! Oh, young girl ! 
Maid Maria! 

Mary — Why bemoanest thou? 

Criest now, care weary? Never crime in thee 
Have I ever found; yet thou utterest words 
As if thou thyself wert all thronged with sin! 

With a woman's intuitive shrewdness, she turns the 
tables on him and makes him the defendant instead of 

38 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

the accuser. Thus the story proceeds, telling the old 
familiar narrative of the Christ, His birth, and His 
early life, and ever and anon bursting forth in choruses 
of lofty praise and thanksgiving. 

The second part of the story deals with the ascen- 
sion of Christ, who in it all is a warrior almost violent 
in His every act. As several critics have pointed out, 
doubtless the finest scene of this second portion is that 
showing the saints, whom the Saviour has released in 
his harrowing of Hell, following their Master to Heaven. 
The Heavenly inhabitants come forth to greet these old 
fighters for the faith, and the mighty leader of the 
angel army speaks like Beowulf of yore: "See, the 
Holy Hero has bereaved Hell, taken back the tribute. 
Lo, He returns after the war-playing, with his unnum- 
bered folk set loose from prison. ye gates, unclose; 
the King has come to His city ! ' ' 

Now follows soon the story of the Day of Judgment, 
preceded, however, by some lines that in their cry of 
remorse, fear of the last accounting, and recognition 
of God's mercy, possess a most personal, human appeal: 

Mickle is our need 
That in this unfruitful time, ere that fearful dread 
On our spirit's fairness, -we should studiously bethink us! 
Now most like it is as if we on lake of ocean. 
O'er the water cold in our keels are sailing. 
And through spacious sea, with our stallions of the Sound 
Forward drive the flood-wood. Fearful is the stream 
Of immeasurable surges that we sail on here. 
Through this wavering world, through these windy oceans. 
O'er the path profound. Perilous our state of life 
Ere that we had sailed to the shore. 
O'er the rough sea-ridges. Then there reached us help, 

39 



ENGLISH FICTION 

That to hithe of Healing homeward led us on, 

He, the Spirit-Son of God! And He dealt us grace, 

So that we should be aware, from the vessel's deck. 

Where our stallions of the sea we might stay with ropes, 

Fast a-riding by their anchors — ancient horses of the wave! 

Is it not a picturesque description of life's voyage? 
Here is the same ancient charm of the sea, here the 
same bold metaphors for ship and ocean, the beat of 
the waves against the bark, the foam of the surges, 
and with it all the deep Anglo-Saxon melancholy strain, 
only softened and made more patient by the help of a 
divine Pilot. Truly, Christianity had not destroyed the 
ancient foundation virtues, but simply had built its 
nobler structure upon them. 

The third part of this piece of Anglo-Saxon fiction 
takes as its theme the Last Beckoning. Now the poet 
is in his native element ; Wyrd is once more victorious ; 
God, the destructive warrior, has let free His wrath. 
Hear and see that final hour : 

All a-glow the Angels blow with one accord 
Loudly thrilling trumpets. Trembles Middle-garth; 
Earth is quaking under men! Right against the going 
Of all the stars they sound together, strong and gloriously. 
Sounding and resounding from the south and north; 
On all creation, from the east and from the west; 
Bairns of doughty men from the dead arousing, 
All aghast from the gray mold; all the kin of men. 
To the dooming of the Lord. 

The world is on fire; "the Fire-blast, flaming far, 
fierce and hungry like a sword, whelms the world 
withal"; the mountains melt; the oceans boil; death 
fastens on man; the world shrivels like a scroll. All 

40 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

things perish — all save one. There against the murky 
sky stands the Cross, calm, unmoved, with its base rooted 
in Mount Zion and its head reaching into heaven. 
Without the sun, it shines afar; it is indeed the Rock 
of Ages. Thus with a burst of true Anglo-Saxon word- 
picturing the story of the Christ sweeps on to its close. 
This is a tale that would have brought the bold feasters 
of Widsith's day to their feet — one that would have 
caused them to brandish their swords aloft and shout 
undying allegiance to their Chief, the Warrior of Gali- 
lee. They might not have appreciated the tender pas- 
sages that the new religion had given the legend ; but the 
plot with its wild activity, the dangerous sea-voyage, 
the stormy harrowing of hell, the destruction of the 
world, and that mighty cross standing there amidst the 
tumult as the symbol of unchanging Wyrd, the Will 
of God — these things would have touched the native 
chord of heroism and idealism within their souls, and 
they would have praised with joy the minstrel whose 
art had made the song. 

Ever and anon, however, despite the humanizing ef- 
fects of Christianity, the old love of blood and strife 
breaks forth, and then the disciples of Jesus become 
warriors instead of teachers, and the saints shout a bat- 
tle-cry that might have roused dragon-fighting Beowulf 
himself from the grave. Of such a nature is the story, 
Judith, sometimes attributed to Cynewulf, sometimes 
to Cffidmon. Here are lust and carousal and drunken- 
ness and virtuous womanhood and valiant war and 
treasure-giving and all those phases of song that roused 
the primitive Anglo-Saxon enthusiasm. The first nine 
cantos of this ancient fiction are lost; but the last three 

41 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tell a vivid, yes, a violent tale. "We are placed," says 
Stopford Brooke, "in the midst of an eager life, in full 
sympathy with liberty, battle, and patriotism, with bold 
and heroic deeds. Judith is a fine creature, even finer 
than she is in the Apocrypha; and I do not doubt that 
there were many English women of the time capable 
of her warlike passion, and endowed with her lofty char- 
acter. ' ' * 

Holofernes and his guests carouse at a great banquet 
— a typical English banquet, by the way — and the 
"stark-minded man stormed and yelled, full of fierce 
mirth and mad with mead" — just like an English chief, 
again. Then he orders the Christian maiden, Judith, to 
be brought to his tent : 

The famous then in mind 
Was glad, the ruler of cities; he thought the beautiful maiden 
With spot and stain to defile. 

But the monster was "so drunk with wine" that he 
fell in sleep across his bed. Then the maiden, wrath- 
ful in soul, seized a sword, "wreathed-locked," and 
breathed a passionate prayer to the God of Purity : 

Grant, Lord of Heaven, to me 
Victory and faith without fear, that I with this sword may be 

able 
To hew down this dealer of murder; . . . 

Avenge now, mighty Lord, 
Glorious Giver of honor, that I am so angry in mind. 

Then she seized him by his long hair, "struck then 
the hostile foe with shining sword" so that half through 

4 English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Con- 
quest, p. 146. 

42 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

his neck was cut, and then a second time so that "his 
head rolled off on the floor, ' ' and his soul went ' ' strongly- 
enchained in the fire of hell. ' ' Thus early the woman 's- 
honor motif has entered English fiction, and thus quickly 
was it disposed of in early days. With the same vivid 
picturing this story of Judith continues its course, re- 
lating how the lion-hearted woman, Saxon to the very 
core, rushes forth with the head of Holofernes, displays 
it to the people, exhorts the warriors, as did Joan of 
Arc, to fierce battle, and sees the Assyrians, panic- 
stricken, slain by the pursuing Hebrews. Then comes 
the gift-giving, without which no old English fiction 
would have been complete : 

They brought for herself; 
The spear-strong earls, of Holofernes 
The sword and gory helm, likewise the byrnie broad, 
Adorned with reddish gold, all that the warrior-chief, 
The brave, of treasure had, or individual wealth, 
Of rings and jewels bright; that to the lady fair 
The wise in mind, gave they. 

How such a story must have thrilled those Christian- 
ized Anglo-Saxons of the eighth, ninth, and tenth cen- 
turies. Here was the strife of their fathers, the battle- 
cry of yore, the stalwart manliood, and the strong purity 
of womanhood that had won them victory in all strug- 
gles; it was but a bringing over of the old themes and 
old manners into the life and the fiction of the new and 
more enlightened era. 

THE CHRONICLE 

The Anglo-Saxon 'Chronicle contains not a few of just 
such vigorous phases of narrative. This ancient his- 

43 



ENGLISH FICTION 

torical account, probably begun at the request of King 
Alfred, tells the chief events of England's days from 
the coming of the Romans, B. C. 54, to the year 1154. 
A wonderful collection it is. Priest after priest, monk 
after monk, scholar after scholar wrote his brief com- 
mentary on the life that he knew, and in death handed 
the pen to his successor. Portions of the long story 
are dull enough, it must be admitted — dry descriptions 
of petty doings in monastic circles; but now and then 
a momentous event occurred, and then the scribe, thrilled 
with fear, surprise, or triumph, was lifted out of him- 
self, and wrote as one inspired. Two of such noble pieces 
of narrative are the poems on the Battle of Brunanburh 
in 937 and the Battle of Maldon in 991. Here the old 
war-cry rings out again; here the love of combat bursts 
the bonds of three centuries of Christian teaching ; here 
the British spirit speaks as it spoke in Macbeth: 

Lay on, Macduff; 
And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" 

Lord Tennyson has modernized the famous story of 
Brunanburh and has caught surprisingly well the spirit, 
the rhythm, and the diction of the ancient ballad. Note 
the rapidity of movement, the flash and din of battle, the 
glory in victory: 

Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower and Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong glory in battle. 
Slew with the sword-edge, there by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, hew'd the linden-wood, 
Hack'd the battle-shield. 
Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. 

44 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

Theirs was a greatness got from their grandsires — 
Theirs that so often in strife with their enemies 
Struck for their boards and their hearths and their homes. 

Bow'd the spoiler, bent the Scotsman, 

Fell the ship-crews doom'd to the death. 
All the field with the blood of the fighters 

Flow'd from when first the great sun-star of morning-tide, 

Lamp of the Lord God, Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious creature 

Sunk to his setting. 

There lay many a man marr'd by the javelin. 

Men of the Northland shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman weary of war. 

We, the West Saxons, long as the daylight 

Lasted, in companies 
Troubled the track of the host that we hated. 
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us. 

Many a carcass they left to be carrion; 

Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin — 

Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and 

Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and 

Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and 

That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 

That other story, the Battle of Maldon, which the his- 
torian, Freeman, declared as ranking ' ' among the noblest 
efforts of Teutonic poetry," tells of the struggle of the 
Northumbrian earl, Birhtnoth, against the Vikings. 
Their leader, Olaf, vainly attempted to cross a wooden 
bridge guarded by the Saxon Wulfstan, and then cross- 
ing at a ford, met Birhtnoth in deadly strife. Birhtnoth 
is wounded, but slays his foe. Again he is wounded, and 

45 



ENGLISH FICTION 

while he prays God to receive his soul, he is cut down 
by the enemy. Hear a few lines of the thrilling tale : 

There was to the Vikings recompense given; 

Heard 1 that one of them slew 

Strongly with sword, stroke he withheld not, 

That fell at his feet the fated warrior; 

For that did his prince give thanks to him. 

To his bower-thane, when he had season. 

So firmly stood the fierce-in-mind. 

The youths in fight, eagerly thought 

Who there with his spear might soonest be able 

From a fated man the life to win, 

A warrior with weapons. 

Then, as has been said, Birhtnoth received a mortal 
thrust : 

In breast was he wounded 
Through the ringed mail; there stood in his heart 
The poisonous point. The earl was the gladder; 
Laughed the proud man, to his Maker gave thanks 
For the work of that day that the Lord him gave. 

I thanks to Thee give. Ruler of nations. 

For all those joys that on earth I experienced; 

Now, Maker mild, most need have I 

That Thou to my spirit the blessings grant. 

That my soul to Thee may take its course. 

Into Thy power. Prince of Angels, 

With peace may go; I pray to thee 

That fiends of Hell may not it harm. 

There is a stern pathos in all this — a pathos so manly 
that it is above all taint of sentimentality. But there 
are foils to this sadness; our hatred of cowardice is 
aroused; the disgust of the strong-hearted is awakened. 
Godric, the Saxon, fled on the horse of his dead lord, 

46 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

and other cowards followed him. Some heroes, how- 
ever, yet remain, and these waged the battle about the 
corpse of their master. "Then was there clashing of 
shields; the seamen strode forth, ireful in war. The 
spear often drove through the life-house of the doomed. 
. . . The heroes sank down, weary with wounds." 
The old encouraged the young; the young cheered on the 
old ; death reaped its harvest. 

The manuscript ends here abruptly. The story of de- 
feat is too plain to need further accounting. Who the 
author was we shall never know; but this we do know: 
that in his veins ran the old Saxon blood and that the 
scene of battle was secretly more fascinating than all 
the dusty manuscripts within the monastery walls. 

It would seem that every writer of those ancient times 
loved the art of story-telling. King Alfred stopped in 
the midst of his translations from the Latin to thrust 
in the stories that travelers told him; the preachers in 
their Homilies held the dull audiences by means of ani- 
mal fables, war-tales, and saints' lives. The man who 
could create vivid narrative was a power for righteous- 
ness, order, and the progress of civilization; he could 
command a hearing when all other speakers failed. The 
strength of the poet, the scop, was a very real strength; 
for his voice might fire the soul of the nation. 

FOREIGN INFLUENCES 

As, however, the tenth century drew to its close dark- 
ness hovered over England. The Danes, year by year, 
crept farther west and south ; they conquered here and 
they mingled there; they loved not learning or books; 
they found no joy in the valiant stories of the Christ 

47 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and His thanes. Imaginative literature all but died in 
the land; the poet was silenced; the story-teller wrote 
meagerly. Yet, in spite of the discouragement and deso- 
lation, some new narratives came among the people. 
Already Norman influence was showing itself in the 
island, and stories from Southern Europe — stories un- 
like the stern, wild tales of the Anglo-Saxon race, began 
to be popular. It was perhaps a sign of weakness, of 
degeneracy, — this acceptance of the foreign love-ro- 
mance and this forgetting of the ballads that had roused 
the early sires. 

APOLLONIUS 

One specimen of this foreign literature will suffice — 
the Greek romance of Apollonius of Tyre, a sentimental 
love-story that had entered Northern Europe through the 
Latin and had been put into Anglo-Saxon about the 
year 1000. Apollonius, an accomplished, sentimental, 
melancholy, and, of course, handsome young gentleman, 
is shipwrecked in the land of Gyrene. He goes into the 
city gymnasium, pleases the king with his acrobatic 
tricks, is invited into the royal household, and meets 
the king's beautiful daughter who, of course, instantly 
falls in love with him. At the end of the first day he 
comes forth several hundred pounds of gold and silver 
ahead, and with the prospect of an early marriage in 
the neighborhood, and that prospect soon becomes a 
reality. Of course they lived happily ever afterwards. 

This, then, was the change that was coming over the 
people. In Beowulf's day the warriors at the feast would 
probably have been disgusted with such an effeminate 
gush of romance and would have kicked the minstrel out 

48 



EARLIEST FICTION OF CHRISTIAN ENGLAND 

of the hall. But now it was received and liked. Well 
for the English indeed that within another century a 
new race, the Norman-French, with a truer love for 
sentiment and yet with a bravery uncontaminated, 
should come among them with new and loftier ideals of 
life and literature. 



49 



CHAPTER III 

The Fiction op Norman England 

It was in 888 that the Norse under RoUo besieged 
Paris, and it was almost exactly a quarter of a century 
later that his people gained that part of France now 
known as Normandy. These Northerners were quick to 
observe and learn, and before the close of the tenth 
century we find them so thoroughly incorporated into 
the life of France that none could accuse them of being 
less civilized, less cultured, less French than their neigh- 
bors to the south. Even their Norse language had dis- 
appeared, and in its place had come a speech largely of 
Latin foundation with but an element of the Danish 
remaining. Brave, romantic to some extent, alert, 
quick to imitate and absorb the better phases of the life 
about them, these people doubtless showed the most rapid 
transformation ever seen in Europe. 

NORMAN ENGLAND 

These, then, were the invaders of England in 1066. 
Their customs, their ideals, their view of life, their ex- 
ample had, however, invaded the islands years before. 
The mother of the English king, Edward the Confessor, 
was a Norman; he himself had been educated in Nor- 
mandy, and upon his coming to the throne he had placed 
the French stamp upon his court. He was surrounded 

50 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

by Norman courtiers ; his priests were Norman ; Norman- 
French was the favorite language in his halls ; French 
literature was in his library ; and Norman minstrels sang 
of French themes. Thus, when William came, he found 
at least the highest circles of English society prepared 
for him. Nor did this invader come without what he 
deemed good reasons. He was a relative of Edward's 
mother; he had been promised the kingdom by Ed- 
ward ; the Pope had sanctioned his claims ; there was an 
English party that wished him to enter. He came, 
then, not as a rude, barbarous usurper, but as a 
strong and not unjust civilized monarch claiming his 
own. 

The Britain that he found was rude enough. The 
vast forests were peopled by wild and often fierce ani- 
mals. Along the coast broad sea-marshes stretched un- 
der the mist. Through marsh and forest mere trails 
served as highways, and only the roads that the Romans 
had built nearly a thousand years earlier offered a fair 
route for commerce. That commerce, confined almost en- 
tirely to hides, wool, skins, and agricultural produce, was 
generally meager enough in the summer and fall, but 
during the winter and spring was brought to a dead 
stand-still by the miserable condition of the paths of 
communication. 

The people were as crude as their surroundings. 
Drunkenness and gluttony were national traits ; isola- 
tion, ignorance, and suspicion hovered over all ideas 
and actions. A stranger was an object of fear or 
hatred ; he must blow a horn or shout when approaching 
a house, or run the risk of being shot. Rough fights 
and feuds burst forth in every gathering of the com- 

51 



ENGLISH FICTION 

mon people; blood-money was the penalty for murder; 
crime of a violent nature was most common. Surely 
the old Anglo-Saxon virtues of bravery, sturdiness, 
and independence had grown too ripe and had gone to 
seed. 

The nation seems to have been divided into three 
classes, not so much through intellectual or cultural at- 
tainment as through cast of fortune. First came the 
earls or great land-owners, men whose ancestors had 
been leaders for centuries. Then came the churls or 
farm-workers, who might hold land of their own, but 
who were attached to the earl and his property, and 
were always included in the sale of the property. Last 
came the thralls, or slaves, men without property rights 
or suffrage, in many instances the descendants of the 
ancient Welsh whom the Saxons had overcome. The 
people were ignorant and unambitious. The monasteries 
with their broad lands and well-built houses were about 
the only centers of culture in vast areas, and served, 
in spite of their disobedience of church laws and their 
worldliness, to keep alive some intellectual life. There 
was no national language ; three rather distinct dialects, 
the Northern, the Midland, and the Southern, contained 
a few books, most of which were unintelligible to readers 
of only one of these tongues. 

William, coming among such conditions, did not at- 
tempt any sudden revolutions, but wisely left untouched 
the customs, the ideals, and the religion of the common 
folk. Naturally, however, tremendous changes took 
place. The tliree classes of British society were leveled 
into one, and the new castes consisted of but Normans 
and English. This, of course, injured the former aris- 

52 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

tocrats, but undoubtedly aided the lowest classes, who 
now found themselves on almost the same plane as their 
earlier masters. Perhaps the greatest results were the 
destruction forever of British isolation, the awakening 
of British intellect through the discipline of conquest 
and suffering, and the wider diffusion of the Celtic 
spirit through the more intimate relationship of the 
former Saxon nobles and the Welsh serfs. The insti- 
tution of feudalism was far-reaching in its effect on 
architecture, social life, government, and war. More 
splendor appeared at court; the love of the pageant 
and festival was more evident; the refinements of man- 
ner, speech, and dress were revelations to the Saxons; 
the regard for the fine arts, the greater dignity of the 
continental Catholic Church, the interest in sentiment — 
all these meant education to the natives. The Normans 
were not remarkably original, but were greedy adopters ; 
they were religiously inclined, but not highly moral; 
they were not so much creators as improvers of the 
romantic. To the British, therefore, they may not have 
brought so much the nobler qualities of strong, clean 
manhood, but they did indeed bring nimbleness, cheer- 
fulness, brilliancy, and a facile and beautiful language. 
That language necessarily became the medium of court, 
parliament, bar, university, and church, but yet it did 
not thoroughly mingle itself with the vernacular for 
nearly three centuries. In 1258 royal proclamations 
were issued in Latin, French, and English ; in 1302 Eng- 
lish was spoken in the law courts; in 1340 Oxford stu- 
dents were required to talk Latin or French at their 
meals; until 1345 all school instruction was in French; 
in 1350 English practically ceased to absorb French; 

53 



ENGLISH FICTION 

in 1363 the Chancellor opened Parliament with English ; 
and between 1340 and 1400, the period of Chaucer's life, 
there was spoken and written a language having a large 
infusion of French, no doubt, but read without undue 
effort in our own day. 

That was a brilliant period between 1100 and 1300, 
— a time of great events and great men. On both the 
continent and British soil the universities seemed to un- 
dergo a revival, and Bologna, Orleans, Montpellier, Paris, 
Salerno, Oxford, and Cambridge were crowded with 
zealous students. The Crusades gave a glamour to the 
day ; splendid tournaments added picturesqueness ; while 
fierce feuds between barons and kings brought out the 
sterner qualities of the races. Henry of Anjou destroyed 
eleven hundred castles in his campaigns, and depended 
upon the common folk for aid in such destructive work. 
Under King John (1272) the English and the Normans 
in England were united against the Normans in France, 
and a fierce patriotism once more burned in Great 
Britain. The deeply religious character of the Anglo- 
Saxon, with his sternness, fatalism, and stubbornness, 
had gained a tinge of romance from his own mythology, 
his lives of the saints, and the sufferings of his martyrs ; 
while the Norman romances, with all their false loves 
and woman's frailty, had gained through their Holy 
Grail and general idealism, a deep strain of the religious. 
These two streams of literature — the romantically re- 
ligious of the Anglo-Saxon and the religiously romantic 
of the Norman — running on the one hand from Orm in 
the thirteenth century to Langland and Wiekliffe in the 
fourteenth, and on the other hand from Geoffrey and 

54 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

Layamon in the thirteenth to Chaucer in the fourteenth, 
gradually grew nearer and may be said to have con- 
verged at length early in the fifteenth century. Re- 
ligion and romance no more were foes; they mingled 
to make the Arthurian legend and English romance and 
poetry in general the most nearly perfect of modern 
literatures. 

NORMAJ^ INFLUENCES 

Under the Normans England was even more a land 
of story than it had been in the days of the Saxon scops. 
Indeed during the three centuries following the Con- 
quest, all Europe seemed to become a nest of singing 
birds. The troubadours in Provence, the trouveres in 
France, the Minnesingers in Germany, the scaldic bards 
in Denmark, the harpers in Wales, the min.strels of the 
Anglo-Normans — all united to fill the world with song 
and legend. The Crusades had made anj'thing be- 
lievable. The people were not content to take history 
as it was ; they stepped gladly from the prison of fact 
to the realm of fancy, and the land was filled with fan- 
tastic dreams. 

The Anglo-Saxons could still point with some pride 
to their Chronicle, which was to continue until 1154; 
the scholars among both English and Normans wrote 
most credulous histories and chronicles in Latin; the 
court folk received their romances and lays in French; 
the common people about the tavern fire heard their 
rude ballads and tales in an English which was becom- 
ing daily more a mingling of Saxon and French. The 
Saxons had retained their ancient love for these things ; 

55 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the invading Danes had doubtless brought many a rough 
ballad ; the Normans had now come with a new and more 
refined vein of legend. 

THE MINSTRELS 

The old gleeman who had sung the mighty Saxon 
songs in the chief's feast-hall was now gradually losing 
his prestige. A new and better type of minstrel came 
with the French, and the earlier type at length found 
its proper place in the hut and tavern kitchen. 

Thus various classes of raconteurs came into existence 
— some high, some low, some singers in palaces, some 
in dirty dens of vice. Each gave what his audience de- 
manded, and thus, incidentally, brought down the wrath 
of the Church upon the class as a whole. Augustine 
condemned giving to such wanderers, and the priests 
opposed them in every community. Between 1300 and 
1325, however, the minstrels could be found in prac- 
tically every home of high rank throughout England. 
They had a guild or union; they wore "union" badges; 
they had a fixed scale of wages; they knew their im- 
portance at every public occasion and profited by their 
knowledge. Everybody loved a minstrel, and no doubt 
in olden days all happy hearts sang with Adam Davy of 
the fourteenth century: 

Merry it is in hall to hear the harp. 
The minstrel sing, the jugglers carp. 

As indicated above, however, by the close of the four- 
teenth century the minstrel was losing power, and by 
1450 he was scarcely heard of in the better circles of 
society. 

56 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

But the story-telling specialists, as one might call 
them, found a rudely appreciative audience among the 
common folk long before and long after the above dates. 
The people of medieval days tried, it seems, to turn 
everything into a story. The preachers, as in Anglo- 
Saxon days, continued to tell the lives of saints, animal 
stories, even romances, anything to hold the attention 
of a thick-headed audience. On trips through the coun- 
try, as in the Canterbury Tales, in the camp, on the 
march, the story beguiled the hours. 

FOLK TALES 

The old Anglo-Saxon liking for songs of violent fight- 
ers, such as Beowulf, did not die with the coming of 
the Normans ; for under the new regime such heroes as 
Beves of Hampton, who had performed great exploits 
in Armenia ; Guy of Warwick, who had slain the Danish 
giant Colbrand and killed the savage boar of Windsor 
and the ferocious dun cow of Dunsmoor; King Horn, 
the warrior and lover ; and Hereward, revived and flour- 
ished. The English indeed relearned the lesson of their 
own valiant ones through French poems and romances, 
and came to know them thoroughly only after the legends 
had become tinged with Norman traits. These stories 
may have become more artistic under the hand of the 
French raconteur; but doubtless they lost much of the 
primitive Anglo-Saxon virility and individuality. Thus, 
the story of Horn and Bimenliild (c. 1200), written 
probably by a Norman in England named Thomas, pos- 
esses much of the ancient war spirit; but the conven- 
tionalities of romance, such as the warning by dreams 
and the uniform feats of the hero, give even this ex- 

57 



ENGLISH FICTION 

cellent narrative a slight tone of superficiality. Before 
1300 the story, Horn Childe, modeled upon this poem, 
showed what a confused mingling of Northern tradition 
and French romance had occurred in Britain, Then, 
before 1450 appeared a popular French romance on 
Horn, soon translated into English, Ponthus et Sidoine, 
which, after all, was largely a book of instructions for 
the making of a perfect knight. Thus the rude tale of a 
virile English or Danish fighter had evolved into a 
guide-book in courtesy, and the viking into a "flower of 
chivalry. ' ' 

Havelok the Dane, always popular with the humbler 
people, was perhaps the story of a Norse king, Olaf, 
a fighter whom Athelstan drove out of Northampshire 
in 927, who was routed at the Battle of Brunanburh, 
and who reigned as King of Dublin until 981. Such 
a hero would prove a magnet for all loose bits of tra- 
dition, and many were the tales, therefore, that cen- 
tered about him. Robert of Brunne in his Chronicle tells 
us of an early metrical romance concerning him. King 
Counter of Denmark is slain, and his wife and his son 
Havelok escape with the aid of a sailor. Grim. Being 
attacked by pirates, the queen is killed ; but the boy and 
Grim escape to Grimsby where the mariner rears the 
child as his own. When Havelok grows up he goes to 
the court of the King of Lyndsey (Lincolnshire), who 
in time marries his niece, Argill, to Havelok, who is now 
nothing but a kitchen servant. The wife, wishing Have- 
lok to find some high ancestry to relieve her of this 
disgrace, urges him to go to Grimsby, where his real pa- 
rentage is discovered. Havelok then goes to Denmark, 
recovers his father's kingdom, successfully wages war in 

58 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

England to regain his wife's lands, and thus becomes 
ruler of Denmark, Lyndsey, and Norfolk. 

This British Havelok is one figure not greatly weak- 
ened by French conventionalities. Before 1300 there 
was a three-thousand line English poem on the subject, 
in which the characters are rude, homely people ; Have- 
lok is sheltered by a real fisherman, and the fisherman's 
wife is more ugly than the usual fishwife. The king's 
son works like a peasant; he becomes an apprentice to 
a cook. The tale is decidedly democratic, and, giving 
views of ordinary life in the twelfth and thirteenth cen- 
turies and possessing the free ballad air, it gained for 
Havelok a sure place in the hearts of the people. He 
was granted a position in the histories of the time; he 
was given a date of reigning (usually in the sixth cen- 
tury) ; and his name was often used in connection with 
Danish claims to the British throne. 

French stories of the British heroes, Beves of Hampton 
and Guy of Warwick, were current in the twelfth cen- 
tury, were put into English early in the thirteenth, 
and were popular from that period even up to the days 
of Samuel Johnson. So well known did legends of these 
two become that their names were at length subjects for 
lighter tales, and finally of stories tinged with foulness. 
As we have noted, Guy and his fight with the Danish 
giant present an excellent opportunity for a stirring 
legend, and indeed the knight needed but a talented poet 
to make him the theme of a lengthy romance. Beves, 
more popular in France and Holland than in Britain, 
was, nevertheless, portrayed in Anglo-Norman chansons 
de geste and Middle English romances. Originally a 
Danish-English tale of the tenth century, its hero, like 

59 



ENGLISH FICTION 

most French heroes, evolved into a fighter of dragons 
and monsters and an adventurer who escaped by trick, 
intrigue, or supernatural aid. Here, once more, the 
primitive fire, simplicity, and dignity of the older form 
were probably crushed out by the unending array of 
conventional deeds and characteristics. 

Now, too, in discussing the tales that became a part 
of the common heritage, we must not forget the people 's 
ideal, Robin Hood. Whether or not he lived we cannot 
tell. Professor Child, the greatest authority on ballads, 
considers him a ' ' creation of the ballad muse. ' ' Doubt- 
less there were as early as the fourteenth century many 
gests or tales of this Robber of the Green Wood; but 
the forms we have to-day are of about 1500. Here in- 
deed was a hater of rich churchmen and haughty nobles, 
but a true lover of his king, a respecter of womanhood, 
a man who loved his fellow men, his country, and his 
religion; in short, an epitome of yeoman virtues. No 
wonder that the folk loved him and that all other ballad 
heroes, even though near to the heart of the hearers, be- 
came subordinate to him. 

Now, all such stories had an abundant store of vulgar 
or, at least, coarse humor, and thus side by side with 
the nobler themes of Arthur and Alexander, as heard 
in the castles, this common current ran its muddy course. 
The story of Sir Cleges might serve as a specimen of the 
wit — not vulgar here — that tickled the groundlings of 
Norman-English society. Sir Cleges, while praying 
under a cherry tree at Christmas time, discovers ripe 
fruit on the branches. He takes a basket of it to the 
King of Cardiff, but is so ragged that before gaining ad- 
mittance he has to promise the porter, the usher, and 

60 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

the steward each a third of the present expected. The 
pleased monarch asks him what reward he desires; he 
requests twelve hard strokes, and these he distributes 
among the three scamps, much to the enjoyment of the 
court audience. Not only is the liking for the practical 
joke to be found here; there is another and a deeper 
idea conveyed: the common folk were growing tired of 
romance; the parody or burlesque on it had come, and 
that meant danger to the original. 

The fabliaux, or merry tales, were innumerable. Al- 
ways jolly, often vulgar, luckily they were generally 
brief — something to be told while men drank their ale 
about the tavern hearth. The women in these narra- 
tives were invariably false or scolding jades, a wilful 
perversion of the dainty, fairy ladies of the French ro- 
mances, and another evidence that the common people 
could not stand too much Arthurian tenderness and 
sentiment. An early specimen of the fabliaux is The 
Land of Cohaygne — a reversion of Avalon, a blessed 
country where fat monks and priests might indulge their 
gluttony and adultery. Another example is The Friar 
and the Boy, a well-beloved tale in England, one in 
which a boy with a magic pipe makes a priest cut all 
sorts of unseemly capers. The same enchanted cup idea 
that the higher minstrels developed so wonderfully into 
the noble Legend of the Holy Grail became in the hands 
of the lower folk The Tale of the Basin, a bowl so be- 
witched that it held fast all who touched it, thus caus- 
ing intense joy to the lucky ones who saw half the 
village struggling to gain freedom. The man who is 
hard to kill, a theme, charmingly mingled with romance 
in Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, found himself 

61 



ENGLISH FICTION 

degenerated into the people's hero, Dan Hugh Monk, 
who was hanged once and slain four times, but per- 
sisted in living. As we read later of the lovely and 
lovable stories of Arthur and his Table Round, stories 
which made the noble ladies in the castle weep for sym- 
pathy, we must not forget that down in the lower strata 
of society another current of legend was flowing, a 
stream that was just as likely to have its eifect upon 
the fiction of a later date. 

The churchmen in their efforts to elevate these "folk 
of the earth" invented religious tales of the same sim- 
plicity. Both Frenchman and Englishman were ex- 
ceedingly fond of religious legends. Of course stories 
of St. Nicholas, the patron of sailors, were favorites; 
but tales of British and Celtic saints were as enthusi- 
astically told by Normans as were narrations of Conti- 
nental churchmen. Specimens of such Celtic themes 
retold in Norman-French are the Lives of St. Alban, 
St. Catherine, St. George, and the popular St. Brendan, 
the last named being but the old "Welsh legend of the 
hero who visited the Isles of the Blest. Full of supersti- 
tion these may have been ; yet undoubtedly they had an 
effect upon the people, especially of rural England. 
In one of these stories a Jew (the hated Hebrew was a 
favorite subject) attempted to roast his son for com- 
muning with Christians at Easter ; but the Virgin Mary 
made the oven entirely comfortable for the child. In 
such stories the Virgin performed innumerable mira- 
cles, such as reviving the drowned or restoring to life 
the martyrs burned at the stake or hanged ; while Christ 
himself sometimes came down to earth and had con- 
tests of strength or sMU with mortals. Thus, in The 

62 



THE FICTION OF N0R:\IAN ENGLAND 

Smith and His Dame, Christ takes a blacksmith's ugly 
mother-in-law and forges her into a beautiful lady; 
while the smith, attempting the same trick with his 
wife, hammers her into a pulp. How had magic, ro- 
mance, and religion fallen from their high station in 
such tales as these ! 

Along with this type went the beast fables, stories 
brought into England at the Conquest, but originating 
far back in the dawn of creation among the peoples of 
Asia. Bestiaries, as such collections were called, were 
immensely popular, and the Church, finding the books a 
pleasant and convincing means for teaching moral les- 
sons, aided heartily in increasing their popularity. 
Strange indeed were the theological conclusions gained 
from the beast stories. The lion covers his trail with 
his tail; after his birth he sleeps for three days and is 
then aroused by his father's roaring; he sleeps with his 
eyes open. So, "dearly beloved," Christ hid himself 
on earth so that the devil might not find Him ; He lay 
in the tomb until the third day, when the might of the 
Father aroused Him; His eyes never close on mankind. 
Doubtless the people cared precious little about the 
moral, but they liked to hear about the animals. Just 
as in the development of the legends of Arthur, Alex- 
ander and Charlemagne, these beast fables at length 
began to form a kind of epic or legend about one ani- 
mal, Re^Tiard the Fox, and throughout England, Ger- 
many, Holland, France, and Italy, Reynard was known 
to high and low. The shrewd Chaucer used just such 
a story in his Xun's Priest's Tale; while the shrewder 
Caxton printed in 1481 translations of some exploits of 
the foxv hero that gained an enormous vogue for such 

63 



ENGLISH FICTION 

an unlettered day. Students of comparative literature 
have pointed out that these allegorical animal legends 
probably originated in a collection called Physiologus, 
written by Alexandrian Christians, a book which, after 
spreading throughout Western Europe, had a Middle 
English imitation about 1225. Be that as it may, those 
tales, old almost as humanity itself, aroused among the 
peasant English an abiding enthusiasm scarcely equaled 
by any or any part of the great cycles of romance known 
among the upper classes. 

These, then, were the forms of fiction with which the 
common people were intimately acquainted — degraded 
parodies on legends of magic, funny stories of domestic 
troubles, accounts of practical jokes, tales of religious 
miracles, lives of the saints, and allegorical legends of 
animals. The wonderful narratives of Arthur and 
Charlemagne, Alexander and Troy, were, of course, 
known to them ; but they cared not to abide long on such 
high levels, and in these lower forms of the story-teller 's 
art they found unceasing interest and merriment. 

THE HIGHER FICTION 

The nineteenth century brought forth an undue or 
exaggerated vaunting of democracy. The genius of 
the ''common people" has constantly been thrust be- 
fore us. But the noblest literature, like education, has 
generally come from above downward, and not from he- 
low upward, and as we study the development of fiction 
we find that it is not always the theme most popular 
among the idolized ''masses" that makes for great lit- 
erature, but frequently the creations of some fine, deli- 
cate soul almost unknown to the vast public of his 

64 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

period. To some extent this is the case in our present 
study. A few scholarly churchmen, a few hermit-like 
scribes, a few aristocratic minstrels, casting about among 
their yellow parchments, gathered lofty themes that 
have made English literature the glory and the pride 
of Western culture. 

Much might be said of medieval idealism. It was a 
day of dreamers of high visions, and their cathedrals, 
their paintings, their sculptures, and especially their 
literature show it. In their efforts toward self-expres- 
sion, their writings often seem exaggerated; but they 
are filled with a poetic, almost pathetic striving to body 
forth the high creations of a glowing imagination. So 
in England the chronicle writers in the monasteries and 
churches and the minstrels in the castle were not con- 
tent to have their historical figures remain mere human 
beings, but attributed to them all mortal and immor- 
tal virtues, all beauty and sweetness, all magic and mys- 
tery. 

War and religion and love were the principal themes, 
and the Normans accepted from any source whatever 
ideas that might aid in idealizing these three themes. 
"Wherever his neighbor invented or possessed any- 
thing worthy of admiration, the sharp, inquisitive Nor- 
man poked his aquiline nose. . . . The Norman 
was a practical plagiarist," — practical because he saw 
that all these acquisitions gave importance to his nation ; 
practical because he improved on everything he ac- 
cepted. He therefore seized the stories of Alexander 
and Troy from the Greek and the Latin, the exploits of 
Charlemagne from the French, the story of Arthur from 
the Welsh, the tales of Horn and Havelok and Bevea 
5 65 



ENGLISH FICTION 

from the Saxons, and he wove them into cycles of ro- 
mance never excelled in any literature. 

THE CLASSICAL MATTER 

Before entering into the greatest and the most Eng- 
lish of these cycles, the Arthurian, perhaps it would be 
well to dispose of the other groups of legends that to 
some degree entertained the people of Britain. The 
traditions of Greece and Kome, such as the stories of 
Alexander the Great, Troy, and Brutus, long enjoyed 
an immense popularity upon the Continent; but they 
met with only a fair degree of success among the peo- 
ple of Britain. And yet the medieval British devoutly 
believed themselves of Trojan blood. Had not all their 
early chroniclers, Nennius in his History of Britain, 
Geoffrey of Monmouth in his History of the British 
Kings, Wace in his Brut d' Angleterre, and Layamon in 
his Brut, explicitly stated that Brutus in his flight from 
Troy had come to these islands, settled there, and thus 
gained for them the name "Britain"? Not only the 
islanders themselves but practically all the inhabitants 
of Western Europe accepted the legend, and gathered 
about it a mighty mass of poetry and romance. To- 
ward the middle of the twelfth century a Frenchman, 
Benoit, put the account into his Roman de Troie, and his 
popular story still further spread the tradition through- 
out the Continent. The book suited the times; for, 
though the names remained Greek, the situations, the 
characters, the general tone were medieval; the usual 
Norman fays, demons, and monsters were present, and 
the warriors of Troy became knights of chivalry. As 
Professor Schofield says, in his English Literature from 

66 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

the Norman Conquest to Chaucer, "Benoit saw antiq- 
uity through a glass darkly and relished the sight, ' ' and 
he caused others to enjoy it for the same reason. A cer- 
tain scholar, Joseph of Exeter, wrote a Latin poem, Be 
Bello Trojano, about 1187, and this brought the legend 
further favor among the higher literary classes of Eng- 
land. Then came Guido of Sicily about 1280 with his 
famous Latin book on the Destruction of Troy, and this 
in the original and in translation caused even greater 
enthusiasm than Benoit's version of the previous cen- 
tury. It was translated into English, and every chron- 
icler copied from it. Shortened forms of the story, such 
as the Sege of Troy, dealing with only certain episodes, 
grew popular on the island; such an episode we find in 
Chaucer's beautiful Troilus and Cresseide. The liking 
for the legend did not soon perish; the scholars who 
read the histories of Geoffrey, Wace, and Layamon 
doubtless often repeated the stories ; Lydgate, as late as 
1415, wrote in his Troy Book, or History of the Siege 
and Destruction of Troy more than thirty thousand 
lines; while Caxton in the first volume printed in the 
English language (1474) used it as the theme of his 
Eecuyell of the Historyes of Troye. 

The story of Thebes was another sometimes told in 
English courts and very often in continental courts. 
Even before the Troy legend had grown popular this 
narrative had been put into a French romance of the 
twelfth century, and under the influence of the roving 
Normans it became widely known through Italy, Spain, 
France, and Germany, and, to some degree, in England. 
Boccaccio used it in his story, II Teseide; Chaucer gave 
a version in his Knight's Tale; Lydgate attempted to 

67 



ENGLISH FICTION 

teU the whole stor^- in poetrv; Caxton translated a 
PVeneh form, Livre d£S Eneydes, toward the close of 

the fifteenth century; Shakespeare nsed the legend in 
his Two Xohh Kinsmoi; and Drvden found it an in- 
spiration for his Palunwn and Arcite. It is apparent, 
therefore, that it gained an audience in Great Britain, 
but whether a large or enthusiastic one is doubtful. 

The cycle of Alexander the Great had somewhat bet- 
ter fortrme among the islanders. Versions in the Nor- 
man, Latin, Anglo-Saxon, Scottish, and Middle English 
testify to its popularity even among the masses. The 
legends undoubtedly reached the English shore before 
the Norman Conquest; indeed, they had been known 
widely through Europe before the Normans became a 
nation. 

In all these Alexander was, of course, modernized; 
he became a chivalrous knight of medieval habits, a sort 
of "Homer in a dress suit"; while fays and giants and 
mysterious creatures and the Otherworld made his ad- 
ventures as romantic as heart could desire. But what 
is the story all about? Surely the mere conquests by 
Alexander were not sufficient for the immense body of 
legend gathered in these works. By no means; Alex- 
ander, like other medieval subjects, gathered to himself 
all the attributes of strong heroes, all the love adven- 
tures of lovers whose names would not come quickly to 
mind, all the deeds that forgotten warriors had ever 
acc-omplished. 

Culling from the various versions, we find the story 
starting with the strange circumstances surrounding 
Alexander's birth. Nectanabus, an Egyptian king and 
magician, goes to Macedonia, falls in love with Olym- 

68 



THE FICTION OF NORilAN ENGLAND 

pias, persuades her that the god Ammon is in love with 
her, impersonates Ammon himself, thus becomes the 
father of Alexander, educates the boy carefully, and is 
repaid for his pains bv being thrown into a pit, where 
he perishes. Now begin the great adventures of the 
young hero. The King of Cesarea insults him; Alex- 
ander conquers the monarch; the hero threatens to de- 
stroy Athens, but is dissuaded by Aristotle; he returns 
home to find his supposed father about to make a union 
with Cleopatra, and he drives her away in disgrace. 
Then Philip is poisoned by Olympias and her paramour. 
Alexander goes forth to fight the Persian king, Darius, 
who has sent him an insulting message ; he bathes in the 
Cydnus, crosses Lube and Lutis, sees a strange hill that 
makes brave men cowards and cowards brave, captures 
Tarsus, besieges Tyre, meets with mighty resistance 
from the Philistines, but overcomes all enemies, enters 
Jerusalem, and avenges the murder of Darius. 

And now the marvelous experiences are but begin- 
ning. He goes in a glass case to the bottom of the 
ocean; he sees the wonderful scenery and the peoples 
of India: he overcomes Darius' friend. Poms: he pun- 
ishes the mighty fighters, Gog and Magog, and shuts 
them off with a magic wall: he sees the Pillars of Her- 
cules: he is attacked by strange beasts and horrible, 
abnormal men; he enters the ''Valley from Which None 
Ketum," but escapes by aid from a devil whom he had 
set free: a part of his army perishes because of the 
wiles of sirens : he meets three ancient, homed men, who 
tell him of the Fountain of Youth, the Fountaiu of 
Lnmortality, and the Fountain of Resurrection: on at- 
tempting to reach these springs he is hampered by 

69 



ENGLISH FICTION 

fierce monsters; a forest of plant-maidens, half flower, 
half human, aid him; he and his army, after great suf- 
fering, reach the Fountain of Youth and become as; 
young men. The speaking Trees of the Sun and Moon 
foretell the manner of his death ; Porus, hearing of this, 
wages battle with him and is slain; Alexander visits 
Babylon and flies through the air in a chariot drawn 
by griffins; the Amazons displayed their fighting quali- 
ties ; the warrior is warned by his mother of treachery ; 
he is poisoned; he divides his dominion among the 
Twelve Peers, and perishes. 

This is but the merest outline of some versions of the 
legend; but into this huge framework fitted a mosaic of 
love episodes, intrigues, fierce encounters, magic tricks, 
mysterious visits, that could not be described fully in 
the span of one's life. It was an exhaustless source of 
vivid fiction, and its power of entertaining gave it a 
tremendous influence in the development of Continental 
narrative and no small influence on the course of Eng- 
lish fiction. It appealed to the Saxon love of a physical 
hero ; it satisfied the Norman longing for love-romance ; 
it charmed the Celtic sense of the mysterious and mys- 
tical. Had not a greater and truer story in the Ar- 
thurian legend come forward, it might have become the 
foremost cycle of the British Isles. 

Before leaving this "matter of antiquity" perhaps 
one or two other stories of classical source should be 
mentioned. Apollonius of Tyre, as we have seen, had 
become known to the Anglo-Saxon before the entrance 
of the Norman ; nor did it lose its popularity among 
the nation. Gower used the story in his Confessio 
Amantis; Shakespeare, to some extent, in his Pericles. 

70 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

The romance of Blanchefleur and Floris, with its old 
tale of lovers' separation and reunion; the Squire of 
Low Degree, popular because it told of a common per- 
son's rise in life and thus appealed to the democracy of 
the crowd ; the legend of William of Palerne, translated 
from the French about 1350 and bringing in the an- 
cient idea of a man's or w^oman's being changed into a 
beast; stories of the nine worthies — Arthur, Charle- 
magne, Godefroy, Hector, Alexander, Ctesar, Joshua, 
David, and Judas Maccabeus — these tales, largely of 
early Eastern origin, found a willing audience through- 
out England. Then, there was the sweet poetry-story, 
Aucassin and Nicolette, which bids fair to gain its 
former popularity. 

Sweet the song, the story sweet. 
There is no man hearkens it. 
No man living 'neath the sun. 
So outwear led, so foredone. 
Sick and woeful, worn and sad. 
But is healed, but is glad, 
'Tis so sweet. 

Nicolette, of foreign birth, is loved by the king's son, 
Aucassin; but his father's pride separates them, and 
each suffers as a prisoner for love of the other. Wild 
was their passion for each other. Cries Aucassin: 

**In Paradise what have I to win? Therein I seek 
not to enter, but only to have Nicolette, my sweet lady 
that I love so well. For into Paradise go none but such 
folk as I shall tell thee now: thither go these same old 
priests, and halt old men and maimed, who all day 
and night cower continually before the altars and in the 
crypts ; and such folk as wear old amices and old clouted 

71 



ENGLISH FICTION 

frocks, and naked folk and shoeless, and covered with 
sores, perishing of hunger and thirst, and of cold, and 
of little ease. These be they that go into Paradise ; 
with them I have naught to do. But into Hell would 
I fain go; for into Hell fare the goodly clerks, and 
goodly knights that fall in tourneys and great wars, 
and stout men at arms, and all men noble. With these 
would I liefly go. And thither pass the sweet ladies 
and courteous that have two lovers, or three, and their 
lords also thereto. Thither goes the gold, and the sil- 
ver, and cloth of vair, and cloth of gris, and harpers, 
and makers, and the prince of this world. With these 
I would gladly go, let me but have with me Nicolette, 
my sweetest lady ! ' ' 

At length Nicolette escapes to the forest, and Aucas- 
sin, set free, goes hunting, finds her, and flees with her 
to the King of Torelore, the monarch of a land where 
war is waged with baked apples, eggs, and cheese. Au- 
cassin frees the king of all enemies and lives a season 
of bliss with Nicolette. Then the lovers are carried off 
by the Saracens, and after years of separation are 
united once more at Biaucaire. 

When his love he saw at last. 
Arms about her did he cast; 
Kissed her often, kissed her sweet. 
Kissed her lips and brow and eyes. 
Thus all night do they devise 
Even till the morning white. 
Then Aucassin wedded her. 
Made her Lady of Biaucaire. 
Many years abode they there. 
Many years in shade or sun, 
In great gladness and delight. 

72 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

Ne'er hath Aucassin regret, 
Nor his lady Nicolette. 

Such stories, together with the collections of accounts 
about great heroes and lovers, such as the Gesta Boman- 
orum (c. 1300), used so frequently by Chaucer, Lyd- 
gate, Shakespeare, and others, were doubtless based 
largely on classic foundations, but gained in time a 
gentleness, a tenderness, a touch of chivalric romance 
totally unknown to the ancient raconteurs who first told 
them. 

THE MATTER OF FRANCE 

The Alexander cycle and the Troy cycle, as we have 
seen, gained a wide audience on the continent and at 
least a favorable hearing on English soil. The third 
great cycle, the Charlemagne, seems to have been the 
only one of the four that really originated from the 
people, and on the Continent became as well known in 
hut as in palace. The Arthurian legend, gaining its 
wide notice through the more scholarly writers and 
more aristocratic minstrels, was indeed more artistic, 
and in later centuries far more famous and productive ; 
but neither it nor the Alexander nor the Troy gained 
the ear of the common folk so readily as traditions of 
the wonderful Charles the Great. We all have read 
how the gallant minstrel, Taillefer, rode before the 
Norman invaders at the Battle of Hastings, flashing his 
staff into the air and bravely singing the Song of Rol- 
and: . 

Grod and his angels of Heaven defend 

That France through me from her glory bend; 

Death were better than fame laid low. 

Our emperor loveth a downright blow. 

73 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The song tells the story of Roland's mighty battle 
against the Saracens in a pass of the Pyrenees. One 
blast of his horn would have brought his emperor, 
Charlemagne, to the rescue; but Roland prefers to die 
rather than ask aid against a ' ' pagan ' ' foe. 

I will not sound on my ivory horn; 

It shall never be spoken of me in scorn 

That for heathen felons one blast I blew. 

The result is death, and a terrible vengeance visited 
by Charlemagne upon the enemy. 

The Song of Roland is, therefore, but a branch of 
the widespread Charlemagne legend, and Taillefer's 
singing it is but another evidence of" the fascination 
the cycle had for courtier, soldier, and peasant. Both 
English and Norman could admire this mighty Charles; 
for he was recognized as the first great Christian mon- 
arch; in him were mingled the admirable traits of 
Christian and racial fidelity. In time the Normans in 
England, probably from jealousy, exalted Arthur so 
that the Normans of the Continent might realize that 
Britain, too, had its mighty hero; but it was long be- 
fore the mild Prince of Avalon overshadowed on the 
mainland the great figure of the Frankish warrior. 
These poetical stories of Charlemagne and other valiant 
leaders took unto themselves the name chansons de 
geste, "songs" of "actual deeds," and such chansons, 
long sung by the minstrels, were at length written down 
in their poetic form, and later turned into prose. Then, 
at last, any account of real or imaginary deeds became 
known as a "gest," and as the humbler story-tellers 
lowered the tone of the legends and turned them into 

74 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

merry tales, the once brave and serious stories secured 
for themselves, when collected, the name "jest-books." 
From the virile descriptions of the mighty Charles to the 
scurrilous squibs found in some of these jest-books is a 
tremendous fall; but one may trace the descent by the 
fragments knocked off as the legend bumped down from 
one stage of society to another. 

This Song of Roland, in existence before 1050, is 
based, like all these cycles, on some historical founda- 
tion. The Gascon mountaineers did destroy a French 
host at the Roncesvalles Pass in the Pyrenees in August, 
778, and Roland of Brittany was killed. From such a 
meager germ the legend expanded to great length. The 
mountaineers became Saracens, and thus Roland be- 
came a defender of both France and Christianity. A fair 
lady, Aude, is introduced, and she, hearing of her lover's 
death, dies of sorrow. Charlemagne, old and mighty 
warrior, is, like Arthur in his legend, not the main 
figure in each event, but seems to hover in the back- 
ground, never intruding, but never wholly out of mind. 
The savage, proud emotion in it, the surge of battle, the 
idealism of it all, should have appealed to Anglo-Saxon 
as well as to Norman, and there is plentiful evidence 
that it was long popular in Great Britain. Even after 
the French had lost their prestige, the poem was trans- 
lated into English, and, though written for knights and 
the higher ranks of warriors, was not unknown among 
the other ranks of society. 

Numerous indeed were the legends of Charles. One, 
the Pilgrimage of Charlemagne, composed apparently 
for the middle classes, tells of his going to Jerusalem, of 
the deep reverence accorded him there, and of the gifts 

75 



ENGLISH FICTION 

presented; but the iiieNdtable plebeian longing for the 
comic element demanded that he stop at Constantinople, 
where he gets drunk, and is saved from disgrace only 
by the intervention of God. Thus did the ^Middle Ages 
mingle the reverent and the gross. In order to gain 
an excuse for his stopping in this city the story states 
that his wife had declared Hugo, Emperor of Con- 
stantinople, a handsomer man than he. Perhaps too 
sudden confirmation of the truth was the excuse for his 
shameful spree in the land of strangers. 

Rohnid's experience with a Saracen, Sir Otuel of 
Spain, was another popular theme of the cycle. Otuel 
and Roland are bitter foes ; but at length, in the midst of 
a terrific duel, a dove descends from Heaven and lights 
upon the Saracen. The meaning is too evident to be 
scorned; he becomes a Christian; he marries the king's 
daughter : and evermore he fights for the faith of Christ. 
This artful mingling of war, religion, and love is one 
of the most sincere charms of medieval literature, — 
indeed, a charm as real and gratifying to us of to-day 
as to men of seven centuries ago. This same mingling 
may be seen in another of the Charlemagne stories, 
Eoland and Ycniagu, which tells of Charlemagne's trip 
to Constantinople, his campaign against the Saracens in 
Spain, and the fierce battle, lasting two days, between 
Eoland and a black giant, forty feet tall, named Ver- 
nagu, in which duel Eoland, noticing the weariness of 
his foe, grants him time for sleep and gathers stones to 
place as a pillow under the monster's head. 

Just as we should expect, in the course of time these 
brave stories of Charlemagne took on, among the better 
classes, more and more of the romantic and fairy char- 

76 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

acter. Lord Beraers' translation, The Book of Duke 
Uuon de Bordeaux, a well-written Charlemagne narra- 
tive, is a good illustration; for here the hero has lost 
his barbarous fierceness, and reminds tLS of Arthur, 
while Oberon enters to introduce the ever-pleasing 
theme of fairjdand. It touched a responsive chord in 
the British heart ; Spenser shows its effect in his Faerie 
Queene, Shakespeare in his Midsummer Night's Dream, 
and Keats in his Endymion. This fairy matter was in- 
deed a most successful bid for popularity ; for the fairy 
mythology was native to the Celts and pleasant to the 
Normans, while the Anglo-Saxons were rapidly culti- 
vating a taste for it. 

MATTEE OF BRITAIN 

As we have seen, the Charlemagne legend, in spite 
of its popularity among the higher classes, never be- 
came a national cycle in England. The people admired 
its wars and its heroes; but the country and the times 
were changing so rapidly that no one group of leaders 
existed long enough to have centered about themselves 
the marveloas doings of Charles and his fighters. 
"WTien, on the other hand, the English read or heard the 
Arthur legend, they did not seek to find a modem na- 
tional hero to fit into it; for this story was not merely 
English but universal. "The matter of Britain was in 
its beginnings largely myth and fable; that of France 
was idealized fact. . , . When men read the stories 
of King Arthur and his knights, they felt the glamour of 
mysterj' ; they were bespelled by unreality', by visions. ' ' ^ 

1 Schofield's History of Eng. Literature, yorman Conquest to 
Chancer, p. 12.5. 

77 



ENGLISH FICTION 

In this cycle of the gentle Arthur we have the most 
rounded, the most subtle, the most artistic of all leg- 
ends. The others, the Troy, Alexander, and Charle- 
magne, might run on forever; their heroes had no one 
ideal; their wars might last as long as a fresh lot of 
heroes could be created. But here, when we see the 
blameless Prince of Avalon sink down in death near 
the "broken chancel with a broken cross," "we have 
reached," as Saiutsbury says in his Flourishing of Eo- 
mance, "and feel that we have reached, the conclusion 
of the whole matter when the Graal has been taken to 
Heaven, and Arthur has gone to Avalon. . . . The 
end is not violent or factitious, it is necessary and in- 
evitable. ' ' 

Numerous bitter controversies have arisen as to the 
origins of this Arthurian matter. There seem to be 
four theories, which, in the words of Saintsbury, are: 
"(1) That the legend is not merely in its first con- 
ception, but in its main bulk, Celtic, either (a) "Welsh 
or (b) Armorican. (II) That it is, except in the mere 
names and the vaguest outline, French. (Ill) That 
it is English, or at least Anglo-Norman. (IV) That 
it is mainly a literary growth, owing something to the 
Greek romances, and not to be regarded without error 
as a new development imconnected, or abnost uncon- 
nected, with traditional sources of" any kind." Per- 
haps a mingling of all these would come nearer the 
truth than any single theory. The half-hidden influ- 
ences of classical lore, sifting through all stages of so- 
ciety, must not be neglected; the influence of Provence 
and Wales on the development of this special cycle 
cannot be cast aside. Eleanor of Poitou married 

78 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

Henry II in 1149, and the famous love-poet, Bernard de 
Ventadour, resided with her. There was a constant 
coming and going of troubadours between England and 
the Continent during the eleventh, twelfth, and thir- 
teenth centuries, and these French and the Welsh bards 
must have found themselves close together in both 
spirit and temperament. Then, too, French writers, 
such as Marie de France and Crestien de Troyes, spent 
a portion of their lives in England and there did liter- 
ary work akin to the Welsh legends and writings. 

The writers of chronicles in Great Britain deserve 
no minor honors for their part in carrying forward and 
developing this wonderful legend of Arthur and the 
Table Round. There was a real Arthur, it appears, a 
leader of the Britons after the departure of the Romans 
in the fifth century, — a leader who, from a petty chief 
of a West England army, grew — thanks to these chron- 
iclers — into a world conqueror. It seems that Arthur is 
first mentioned, or rather, indicated, in the Historia 
Britonum of about 826, a book which was, perhaps, an 
amplified form of one written a little after 600. The 
historian Gildas who apparently was Arthur's con- 
temporary, says in his De Excidio et Conquestu Britan- 
nicB that the Britons so badly defeated the invading 
Saxons at ]\Iount Badon that for fifty years the country 
was undisturbed. Nennius tells us that Arthur was 
commander in a great battle at Mount Badon and gained 
a lengthy peace. Thus through this battle, occurring 
between 480 and 500, we have double authority for the 
"Arthurian" leadership mentioned by later historians. 
Soon after the death of this valiant leader the stories 
of ancient Welsh gods began to gather about him, and 

79 



ENGLISH FICTION 

for the next seven or eight centuries all romance and 
all figures of romance became subordinate to him or 
merged into his great personality. 

Perhaps it was in such a condition that Geoffrey of 
Monmouth found the theme when he began the book 
which gave Arthur his first wide fame — the History of 
the British Kings (c. 1140). This might be classed as 
one of the numerous "epoch-making" books. Geof- 
frey, a Welshman born at ]\Ionmouth, early had a rather 
intimate acquaintance with Welsh, English, French, and 
Latin. As a prominent churchman, as Bishop of St. 
Asaph, he doubtless became familiar with the better 
classes of Normans, and may indeed have heard in the 
castles the Norman minstrels singing Arthurian lays 
carried to France by those Welsh who in former cen- 
turies had fled to the Continent because of the pressure 
of the invading Saxons. From the fragments gained 
through his reading and hearing in four languages, he 
*'wove together an amazing tissue of subtle fabrication." 
He claimed that he found all in an ancient book; but 
scholars of the day laughed at his imaginary source 
and scoffed at his History itself. But the natives 
praised it because it flattered tlieir pride of ancestry; 
the Nonnans admired it because it presented a hero as 
great as the Charlemagne of the Continental Normans ; 
the general audience liked it because it contained stories 
of genuine human interest. Therefore, both its friends 
and its enemies advertised it; its fame went far. Wil- 
liam of Newburgh, of the same century, says: "A cer- 
tain writer has come up in our times to wipe out the 
blots on the Britons, weaving together ridiculous fig- 
ments about them and raising them with impudent 

80 



THE FICTION OF N0R:\IAN ENGLAND 

vanity high above the virtue of the Macedonians and 
the Romans. This man is named Geoffrey, and has 
the by-name of Arthur, because, laying on the color of 
Latin speech, he disguised with the honest name of 
history the fables about Arthur taken from the old tales 
of the Britons -with increase of his own." Some of the 
churchmen passed the story about that a man possessed 
of devils could drive them away by placing the Gospel 
of John upon his breast; but that if he placed Geof- 
frey's book instead, they returned in legions. The 
book was the "best seller" of the twelfth century. 

From this time forth every chronicler felt it a duty 
to tell and to add to the legend of Arthur. Gaimar in 
his French translation of Geoffrey (before 1150), Mat- 
thew Paris (1259) in his widely known Chrmiica Major, 
the scholarly churchman and entertaining historian, 
"Walter Map (d. 1210), the churchman, Wace, in his 
Brut d' Angleterre (c. 1155), the simple-minded, credu- 
lous Englishman, Layamon, in his Brut (c. 1206), Rob- 
ert of Gloucester (c. 1280), in his poetical chronicle, 
Thomas Bek of Castelford in his history, Robert Man- 
ning of Lincolnshire, the author of the once famous 
Handlyng Sinne, in his chronicle of England, de Wau- 
rin's Recueil or Complete History of Britain, and Cax- 
ton in his Crony cles of England (1480) — these and a 
host of others found pleasure in transmitting and en- 
larging the legend of the national hero. There was a 
mighty host of tales that Malory found ready for his 
hand in 1469 when his pen wrote those opening lines 
of Morte d' Arthur: "It befell in the days of Uther Pen- 
dragon . . . that there was a mighty duke in Corn- 
wall that held war against him long time." 
6 81 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Each of these chroniclers tinged the story with his 
individuality and with the traits of his nation. The 
renditions that Geoifrey found before him were in 
many instances at least uncouth if not positively ri- 
diculous. Arthur's men could easily have secured high 
salaries in a modern museum or vaudeville house. One 
hero could stand on one leg an entire day ; another could 
project his bristly red beard over forty-eight rafters; 
another had lips so large that one fell into his lap and 
the other curled about his head like a hood; another 
raised such an outcry if his wants were not satisfied 
that he could keep an entire city from sleep. Yet, the 
mystical element was by no means absent. A messen- 
ger there was who could walk on the tree-tops, and 
never was known to bend tlie grass as he ran; Arthur's 
guide could instantly find his way through an unknown 
country; the interpreter understood a language though 
he had never heard it before; one knight could strike 
fire from his feet; one could make a bridge for a great 
army by simply laying his sword flat upon the water; 
one, though buried seven cubits in the earth, could hear 
an ant fifty miles away arising from its nest. 

Now, it took the fantastic genius of Geoffrey to build 
from this strange material a structure of lasting beauty ; 
it required his genius to transform the warrior Arthur 
into the romantic figure that has captivated the world. 
Fortunately Arthur possessed the mystery of obscurity, 
and Geoffrey, adding to him whatever he pleased, cre- 
ated him brave, handsome, tender, religious, emotional 
—all, indeed, that the chivalrous knights and courtly 
ladies of Norman days could desire. The "Welsh fighter 
immediately became "a very perfect, gentle knight," 

82 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

and more — a superhuman defender of the ideals of hu- 
manity. 

His father is a king who by the aid of the magician, 
Merlin, satisfies his passion for the beautiful wife of an 
old duke. The boy, who is the result of this passiSff, 
reigns at fifteen; everybody loves him; his gleaming 
personality attracts the bravest soldiers, the wisest 
counsellors, the loveliest of women. But Geoffrey does 
not make him a mere handsome gentleman. In the 
twelve great battles against the Saxons, which doubtless 
occurred at wide intervals, but which Geoffrey arranges 
in a short campaign, he is portrayed as a fighter w^ho 
would have pleased old Beowulf himself. He becomes, 
under the hand of Geoffrey, the irresistible foe of the 
Saxons; he conquers Ireland, Norway, and Gaul; he 
reigns in Paris ; he even reaches the Alps in an intended 
campaign against Rome. But rebellion at home and 
the unfaithfulness of the beautiful Guinevere compel 
his return to England, and there in his own land he is 
wounded to the death and is carried afar to the mysti- 
cal island of Avalon to be healed. His magic sword, 
Excalibur or Calibum, had come from that land and 
probably, too, his marvelous dagger and cloak that 
made him invisible, and the beautiful women of that 
isle received him in his distress. Surely the gods were 
with him. 

All this was exceedingly gratifying to the Normans 
in England. In their jealousy of the Continental Nor- 
mans, they were glad to exhibit a hero of their own who 
had conquered France and reigned in Paris, and had 
set forth those rules which had since become French 
manners and customs. Then, too, Arthur as an indi- 

83 



ENGLISH FICTION 

vidual made cvoiy appeal to the Norman sense of 
bravery, deiieacy, knightliness, and chivalry in general. 
Eag:erly, indeed, did they eneonratre further renderint2:s 
of the legend. ^Va^'e, ^^Titing in French, gave the 
character further French traits of refinement and sen- 
timent; he allowed him to try tricky metliods in over- 
coming enemies, but increased his politeness and 
chivalry. Wace, it seems, added the Eonud Table, and 
gave the whole story a greater tinge of romance. "Wal- 
ter J\Iap elaborated the legend in most beautiful terms, 
and, if he did not positively create the Holy Grail por- 
tion, at least gave it that prominence -which made the 
whole cycle a noble story of high idealism. Layamon, 
in his plain English way, portrays Arthur as a strong- 
willed, hard-striking chieftain, a man always willing to 
grant a square deal, an Englishman of the old type. 
Layamon may have had his doubts about some of the 
marvels related by Geoffrey and "Wace: but he by no 
means scorned the magic used in the legend. He was 
probably the first to tell of the three strange women who 
suddenly appeared at the hero's birth and predicted 
his fate; he was the fii*st, it seems, to tell of Arthur's 
departure to Avalon to be healed ; he added much to the 
description of the mysterious Round Table, so con- 
structed that sixteen hundred men might be seated 
without quarrels as to precedence and yet so strangely 
made that it could be folded and carried by one man. 
He added many a touch of realism to the story. He 
invented conversations that we wish to believe and re- 
gret did not occur. Thus, when the foes sue for peace, 
Layamon gives this description: 

"Then laughed Arthur with loud voice: 'Thanks be 

84 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

to God that all dooms wioldeth that Childric the stronj^ 
is tired of my land! My land he hath apportioned to 
all his chief knights; myself he thought to drive out 
of my country, hold me for ba.se, and have my realms 
and my kin all put to death, my folk all destroyed. 
But with him it has happened as it is with the fox 
when he is boldest over the weald and hath his full 
play and fowls enow, for wildness he climbeth and rocks 
he seeketh ; in the wilderness holes to him he worketh. 
For whoever shall fare, he hath never any care. lie 
weeneth to be of power the boldest of all animals. But 
when to him come men under the hills, with hounds, 
with loud cries, the hunters there hollow, the hounds 
there give tongue, they drive the fox over dales and 
downs ; he fleeth to the holm and seeketh his hole ; into 
the farthest end of the hole he goeth; then is the bold 
fox of bliss all deprived, and men dig to him on every 
side ; then is most wretched the proudest of all animals ! 
So was it with Childric the strong and the rich.' " 

Robert of Gloucester in hLs version was less credulous, 
and spoke of the return of Arthur as a "British lie," 
and expressed his opinion that Excalibur was just a 
good sword made in some English town. Clearly Rob- 
ert was a rather rank materialist. Thomas Bek some- 
what defended the Anglo-Saxon invaders, but he could 
dim none of Arthur's glory thereby. Robert Planning 
plainly followed Wace and other French versions; he 
elaborated some events, added the stories of the British 
heroes, such as Havelok and Richard the Lion-Hearted, 
and made the Arthurian legend indeed an English story 
in English. Thus, we see, each author gave the tale a 
more universal touch, made Arthur more thoroughly a 

85 



ENGLISH FICTION 

mingling of the historical and the mythical, and, at 
the same time, bound the legend more securely to Eng- 
lish soil and to English history. 

The stories told by Geoffrey and these other chron- 
iclers, might in many instances have appealed not only 
to courtiers but to the humblest classes of society. For 
instance, Arthur's tight \vith the giant, Ritho, who wore 
furs made of the beards of kings whom he had van- 
quished, might have been found entertaining to any 
audience. This sort of thing Geoffrey might have 
picked up in ordinary Welsh tradition ; but the glitter- 
ing pictures of the glory of Arthur's court where "the 
valor of the men was an encouragement to the chastity 
of the women, and the love of the women a spur to the 
bravery of the warrioi*s," — such pictures were created 
by the genius of Geoffrey and his followers. The bril- 
liant tournaments, the noble castles, the delicacy of 
manner, the richness of dress, the wisdom and gentle- 
ness of the king, the charm of the women, the cultured 
atmosphere of the court — these were idealistic additions 
to fascinate the Norman love of "sweetness and light." 

With astonishing rapidity the legend spread over Eu- 
rope. The achievements of Arthur became known in 
Italy and Spain; a scene from his life's history was 
carved on the Cathedral of Moderua before 1100; nu- 
merous places were named after him or his knights. 
It is apparent that Geoft'rey and his imitators were but 
satisfying a wide-spread hunger for more knowledge 
concerning the hero. The traditions carried by the 
Armorican Britons in their flight from Wales to France 
in the sixth and seventh centuries had caught like fire 
among the French and the Normans, had come back, 

86 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

enlarged and embellished, with the invaders of Britain, 
and had swept north and south along the European 
coast. The tribal tradition of a small, conquered, and 
despised race had become one of the fountains of the 
world's literature. 

MAKING THE CYCLE 

Various odds and ends of romance had been added 
by the Normans before their coming to England in 
1066 ; but not until after this date did the story develop 
into a great cycle with numerous branches. It is now 
our task to examine some of these branches or divisions. 

The Normans, the English, and the Welsh soon vied 
with one another in adding tales of other heroes to the 
Round Table epic. Such characters as Gawaine and 
Lancelot, formerly distinct figures in separate legends, 
gave up their individual personality and merged it into 
that of Arthur, It was a gathering of heroes about one 
standard. 

We have the names of at least two Norman writers 
in England who thus aided in the development of the 
cycle, — Marie de France and Crestien de Troyes. 
Marie, bom on the Continent but long in England, took 
these ancient accounts of Arthurian heroes and wrought 
them into some of the most finished lays in all literature. 
There is a witchery about all she wrote, — a hint of 
Otherworld that makes her brief romances resemble 
beautiful dreams. In such a story as her Guingamor, 
where the knight lives three centuries with a fay in an 
enchanted land, we forget the impossibility of it in the 
simplicity, the beauty, the half-sad sweetness of it all. 
Marie's companion writer, Crestien, of the twelfth cen- 

87 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tury, added tenderness and a romantic background to 
the old legends, minutely described the brilliant tourna- 
ments and festivals, and presented with delicacy what 
we might term the psychological aspects of the emotions 
experienced. Indeed, Crestien's influence in the mold- 
ing of the cycle cannot be ignored ; the "Welsh themselves 
gladly accepted his versions; the massive German poem, 
Parzival, which later was to inspire Wagner, was un- 
doubtedly affected by him. 

Here was a strange mixture of the mortal and the 
immortal. Note, for example, this summary of Marie's 
Launval : 

"One day, distressed by the loss of his possessions, 
Launval is musing alone by a river's side when two 
maidens approach and conduct him to their mistress, 
lying luxuriously in a splendid pavilion near by. She 
grants the knight her love, gives him rich gifts, and 
promises to be with him later whenever he desires, im- 
posing but a single condition, that he make no boasts 
of her to any one. He lives for a time supremely happy 
in his new-found joy; but unfortunately one day in 
an unguarded moment he forgets the restriction his 
amie has imposed upon him, and boasts of her to the 
queen, who, like Potiphar's wife, has offered him her 
love. In so doing he forfeits his happiness, for he 
speedily discovers that the fay, true to her word, no 
longer heeds his desires. The queen having accused 
him of insulting her, Launval is sentenced to death 
■unless he can prove the truth of his assertions concern- 
ing his beloved's beauty. His anguish at being sepa- 
rated from her is keen, but his prayers are of no avail. 
Not until the last moment of respite approaches does 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

the fay appear. Then in all the stateliness of regal 
magnificence, preceded by two pairs of matchless maid- 
ens, she comes riding on a snow-white horse to Arthur's 
court, dazzles the eyes of the bewildered assembly, de- 
nounces the vicious queen, and obtains her lover's re- 
lease. Thereupon she departs to the Isle of Avalon, 
whither Launval accompanies her to dwell forever in 
joy. "2 

Thus writer after writer, whose names are now lost 
or but dimly remembered, added in either poetry or 
prose his tithe of suggestions or narratives, until by the 
middle of the thirteenth century the legend had as- 
sumed huge proportions. It lacked regularity of for- 
mation, it had not symmetry ; it was a mass of additions 
often contradictory, but all important in the making of 
the whole. English versions of the Breton lays, such 
as Sir Orfeo, Sir Degare, Emare, Sir Gowghter, and 
The Erie of Toulouse, came into existence, and appar- 
ently all gave some hint, some scene, some episode, or 
some character to the ever-growing cycle. The various 
figures in these lays were not allowed to remain in their 
primitive state; they were humanized and even Chris- 
tianized, and were made powers for chivalry and right- 
eousness. Thus, in the story of Sir Gowghter we can 
see the gradual approach to the circle at the Eound 
Table ; Gowghter has by this time become IMerlin 's half- 
brother, and, like Merlin, he is predicted to be a fiendish 
being but is made an agent for good through the inter- 
vention of the Church. 

Each figure — jMerlin, Gawain, Tristram — ^had his 

2 Schofield's English Literature from the Norman Conquest, 
Etc., p. 183. 

89 



ENGLISH FICTION 

period of popularitv. aad at such time his story was 
strung out far beyond aU limits of artistic symmetry. 
At times the great Arthur himself was almost forgotten ; 
he became often but an unobtrusive, ever-present in- 
fluence, serenely allowing others to act under his re- 
flected glow. Then, too, all the women of these stories 
were of wondrous beauty, dignity, and gentleness ; they 
wene arrayed in wondrous apparel; and they dwelt in 
wondrous castles. These ladies, often fays or super- 
natural beings, almost always imposed some restrictions 
upon their passionate earthly lovers — a pledge of se- 
crecy, a promise never to boast of the lady's beauty, 
the acc-omplishment of some quest, or the promise that 
a certain question should never be asked. In the strange 
story, La Freine, for instance, there is something akin 
to this in the secret of the heroine's origin, and with it 
other characteristics of the Norman lay. such as the 
gifts foimd with the waif, the suffering of long separa- 
tion and the happy reunion. A maiden is ** exposed'' 
by her mother, is found in a hollow ash near a convent, 
is reared by the nuns, is secretly carried away by a 
lord who loves her at first sight. After a time the 
lord's followers demand that he marry a woman of 
rank- The girl accepts the situation quietly and is so 
kindly disposed toward the new wife that she puts upon 
the bridal bed a mantle and a ring that had been found 
with her in the ash. The bride's mother enters the 
room, rec-ognizes the relics, and confesses that the girl 
is her own daughter. The lord is overjoyed: for the 
"ash-girl*" is of the noble blood required for his wife, 
and he may now take her as his legitimate spouse. 
The Hieme of conjugal unfaithfulness often entered 

90 



THE FICTION OF X0R:MAN ENGLAND 

into these lavs, and a*, in the course of time, the sbnries 
reached the lower classes, this element often degenerated 
into vulgarity if not into {xntiTe immorality. The 
popular tale. The Boy and the Mantle, shows just sneh 
a theme on the downward road. A boy appears at 
Arthur's court and shows a mantle that will fit only the 
woman who has been absolutely moraL Guinevere puts 
it on, but finds to her anger that it seems torn to bits. 
Kay's wife tries, with no better success. Thus the fun 
c-ontinues until Caradoo's wife tries. One little portion 
at her foot is slightly wrinkled, whereupon she oon- 
fesses that she once kissed her lover before marriage. 
Having been forgiven by a priest, she finds that the 
garment now fits exceedingly welL The boy nest brings 
a boar's head which only the knife of a knight whose 
wife had been true could cut. "Knives became scarce; 
some threw them under the table and said they had 
none." Caradoc again was the victor. This chastity 
test by means of a mantle, grail, or other object was an 
ever-helpful device in the old-time romance, and in at 
least one story, the Legend of the Holy Grail, was the 
source of a strengthening idealism. 

TRE TBI5TRAM STORY 

The story of Sir Tristram, which at length gave up 
its independence to become a part of the greater legend, 
was partially — at least in its love theme — of Celtic ori- 
gin, and Welsh material undoubtedly added much to the 
making of the whole composition. But in each country it 
entered it took to itself some national characteristic, and 
thus became almost universal in its appeal. A version by 
a Norman poet, Thomas, gave it wide popularity, and the 

91 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tale in one form or another was soon found in German, 
Italian, French, Old Norse, and English. The German 
poet, Gottfried von Strassburg, translated it early in 
the thirteenth century, and his version was an inspira- 
tion not only to later German poets but to musicians. 
By 1200 a poem, La Folic Tristan, based on Thomas' 
work, had been written in England; by 1290 a Middle 
English poem. Sir Tristram, long afterward edited by 
that modern minstrel, Scott, was well known; and from 
French versions based on Thomas' book Malory secured 
much of the material. This Thomas, apparently a con- 
temporary of Crestien, was a man of finer poetic spirit 
than even the romantic Crestien himself. The latter is 
cynical; he smiles condescendingly at his own story; 
his work is beautiful and artistic, but is the product 
rather of brain than of heart. This Thomas, however, 
felt what he created; his emotions are contagious; we 
suffer with him and his characters. 

As has been stated, Tristram was long unconnected 
with Arthur. He was a warrior, the most famous of 
harpers, a brave musician who made Ysolt, the Irish 
princess, love him for his harping; he had charm and 
strength enough to stand by himself. Note but a few 
lines from the poem (as translated by Miss Weston from 
Gottfried's work) : 

"There they [Tristram and Isolt] sat side by side, 
those two lovers, and told each other tales of those who 
ere their time had suffered and died for love. They 
mourned the fate of the sad Dido, of Phyllis of Thrace, 
and Biblis, whose heart brake for love. With such 
tales did they beguile the time. But when they would 
think of them no more, they turned then again to their 

92 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

grotto and took the harp, and each in their turn sang 
to it softly lays of love and longing; now Tristram 
would strike the harp while Isolt sang the words, then it 
would be the turn of Isolt to make music while Tris- 
tram's voice followed the notes. Full well might it be 
called the Love Grotto, ' ' 

King Mark comes to the grotto and finds them sleep- 
ing side by side, with a naked sword between them. ' ' He 
gazed on his heart's delight, Isolt, and deemed that 
never before had he seen her so fair. She lay sleeping, 
with a flush as of mingled roses on her cheek, and her 
red and glowing lips apart. . . . And when he 
saw how the sunlight fell upon her he feared lest it 
harm her or awaken her, and so he took grass and 
leaves and flowers, and covered the window therewith, 
and spake a blessing on his love, and commended her to 
God, and went his way, weeping." 

Beautiful indeed and strong is the story; but, then, 
everything was sweeping Arthurward. The poems on 
Tristram passed into French prose; the mass of narra- 
tive connected with him was beginning to lose symmetry 
and logical sequence ; he was becoming but a conven- 
tional knight doing the conventional deeds. It was time 
for Malory to refashion him and give him a definite, 
even though over-shadowed, place in the presence of 
Arthur. 

Doubtless the simple original story was very old in 
Great Britain; perhaps the Ysolt theme began in the 
old saga before the entrance of Christian influence. 
Unlike classical and many other love-legends, the pas- 
sion here is inevitable, all-impelling, and all-compelling. 
Life is one long day of love. Love is here the theme of 

93 



ENGLISH FICTION 

themes; war, court, adventure are all subordinate to 
it; the legend is an epitome of the sentiment. As we 
have seen, its influence was far-spread in the thirteenth, 
fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. Malory gave it a 
new birth in the fifteenth; Caxton's press made it easy 
to obtain ; in modern days its popularity has not ceased. 
Tennyson, Arnold, Swinburne, Wagner, and poets and 
musicians of minor fame have found it inspiring. 

THE LANCELOT STORY 

Lancelot, like Tristram, stood, for a time, separate 
and distinct; but as early as the twelfth century Cres- 
tien spoke of him in the story, Erec, as one of the three 
most famous figures at Arthur's court. Near 1170 
Crestien himself wrote charmingly about an episode in 
his adventures, and doubtless the romance took well; 
for stories about the hero had been popular in France 
for perhaps a half-century. The Continental romances 
dealing with his deeds reached great length, but in 
England they were generally short tales of this or that 
episode. There was, however, at least one long prose 
Lancelot dealing with Arthur, Gawain, and the Holy 
Grail, as well as with Lancelot himself. Perhaps the 
favorite among these adventures was his saving of the 
queen from imprisonment, disgrace, and probable death, 
an incident told most pleasantly in Crestien 's Conte de 
la Charette. It is, of course, impossible in this present 
work to give a summary of each and every romance con- 
nected with the various heroes; such an effort would 
make a huge volume. Sufficient to say that the tradi- 
tion was generally mentioned of his being educated by 
a strange *'Lady of the Lake," who carefully trained 

94 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

him in knightly manners ; that he loved Arthur 's queen, 
Guinevere, with a steady but sinful love ; and that thus, 
with sorrow in his heart and full realization of his own 
guilt, he brought ruin to the Round Table. A popular 
exposition of this last-mentioned phase is Le Morte Ar- 
thur, a poem of the fourteenth century. In it we find 
Lancelot in disguise championing Guinevere who is 
about to be burned because of false accusations. He 
overcomes her accuser, gains a more passionate love 
from her, and is entrapped with her by Arthur. Lance- 
lot kills many knights, escapes to his castle, Joyous 
Garde, once more rescues the queen from being burned, 
kills Gawain's two brothers in this adventure, and suc- 
cessfully resists Arthur 's siege. At length by the Pope 's 
command, he returns Guinevere to her husband, and 
leaves England to live in peace. Arthur, however, is 
driven to revenge by Gawain, and is again attacking 
Lancelot when word comes that Modred has turned trai- 
tor at home, and the campaign ceases. 

Very early we find the demands of ''courtly love" 
entering — certain rules and procedures that must be 
followed in love-making, no matter how intimate the 
couple may have become. In spite of this element which 
sometimes adds suspense to the adventures of the pa- 
tient Lancelot and the loving but capricious Guinevere 
— in spite of the tenderness, the human weakness of 
their love, and the constancy of it all, the story did 
not at once gain among English natives the popularity 
it deserved. A certain strict trait in Anglo-Saxon char- 
acter, a profound regard for conjugal faithfulness, 
doubtless prevented a complete sympathy for this guilty 
love, and only after ]Malor\''s labors could the new Eng- 

*95 



ENGLISH FICTION 

lish-French race bestow sympathy, admiration, or gen- 
uine love upon the passionate couple. Here indeed, as 
Tennyson says, was a "blended life," a mingling of 
ruinous sin and noble idealism. 

THE GAWAIN STORY 

In Gawain we find an almost perfect knight — elo- 
quent, brave, handsome, tender, truthful, always courte- 
ous. "Ever he was wont to do more than he agreed 
and to give more than he promised." Yet, strange 
as it may seem, we have no separate biography of him 
such as we possess of the others. Numerous episodes 
are accounted, perhaps the best known being Sir Gawain 
and the Green Knight. On New Year's day King Ar- 
thur and his knights are at Camelot, awaiting adven- 
tures. A giant clad in green and mounted on a green 
horse enters and offers to allow any one to give him 
one stroke, which he will return one year later. Gawain 
accepts, and strikes off the giant's head; but the green 
knight picks up the head, warns Gawain to meet him 
at the Green Chapel twelve months later, and rides 
away. At the appointed time Gawain seeks the place, 
comes to a castle where he is welcomed by a nobleman, 
and where on three successive days he is sorely tempted 
by the nobleman's beautiful wife. He accepts from 
her, however, only three kisses and a magic girdle, and 
the three kisses he returns to her husband. Proceeding 
to the Green Castle, he hears afar the ominous grinding 
of an ax. The Green Knight meets him ; Gawain bows 
his head for the stroke; and the giant turns the ax so 
that no harm is done. Then the Green Knight explains 
that he knew of his wife's wiles and that all had oc- 

96 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

curred to prove Gawain the bravest and most virtuous 
knight in the world. Gawain returns to the Round 
Table, and relates with shame his deceit about the 
girdle. His friends count this as nothing, and agree 
ever afterwards they will wear a girdle of green lace in 
memory of the exploit. 

The Celtic influence in this is clear. The beheading 
element is connected with Irish legends, where its du- 
plicate may be found in stories of an Irish hero, Cuch- 
ulinn. Then, too, a chastity test is added, and this 
might have had at least three sources: Welsh, French, 
or Oriental. 

As in the case of the other heroes, Gawain 's wonders 
increased as time passed. In The Turk and Gawain, 
another tale known in Britain, Gawain enters the Under- 
world, tests his strength with giants, and escapes through 
the assistance of a Turk. This Turk requests as a re- 
ward that his head be cut off. As soon as Gawain does 
the deed the man becomes a handsome knight, and both 
he and his castle are freed from magic. In another 
story, the Adventures of Arthur at the Tarn Wadling 
(c. 1350) we find a mingling of Saxon seriousness and 
morality with French refinement. Guinevere and Ga- 
wain, left behind during a hunt, suddenly perceive a 
horrible, shrieking ghost, covered with toads and snakes, 
rushing towards them. Gawain demands the spirit's 
purpose or wish, and finds the ghost to be the mother 
of Guinevere, suffering for the sins in the flesh. The 
mother implores the daughter to mend her ways, and 
declares that thirty trentals of masses will relieve her 
own horrible condition. The next day while Arthur 
and his men are still at this place (Tarn Wadling) 
■^ 97 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Galleroun, whose property had been given to Gawain, 
approaches and desires a combat to settle the owner- 
ship. Gawain and he fight, much to the anxiety of 
Guinevere and Galleroun 's lady; but at length Gawain 
wins, and then relinquishes all claim to the land. Gal- 
leroun weds his lady, and Guinevere has the great num- 
ber of masses sung, and thus all ends happily at Tarn 
"Wadling. Thus, little by little, widely different inci- 
dents linked themselves to one character. 

By this time, as may be seen, Gawain has become fully 
attached to Arthur, and henceforth we find him the 
king's right-hand man. The Wedding of Gawain would 
be but another proof of his whole-hearted loyalty to his 
king. He marries a filthy, horrible hag to save Arthur's 
life, and with deep disgust he enters with her into the 
bedchamber. There, however, she suddenly changes 
into a beautiful lady, and Gawain receives only joy for 
his sacrifice. 

This Gawain, ever brave, ever active in some good 
work, has been most attractive to the English nature. 
He was true as steel; he was physically brave; he was 
mentally alert ; he was morally wholesome. The British 
would not willingly let him die ; one book concerning him, 
the Singidar Adventures, declared emphatically that he 
was still living in the reign of Henry VIII. 

THE MERLIN STORY 

Merlin — the wizard ! What a story of intrigue, what 
a mingling of good and evil forces center about him! 
Long before Geoffrey wrote his History Merlin was 
known to the Welsh as a prophet, loosely, if at all, con- 
nected with Arthur's career. Geoffrey brings him be- 

98 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

fore us a boy whose birth is mysterious, his mother, a 
nun, having no idea how or when he was conceived. 
The king of the land is told that a certain tower he is 
erecting will stand only after being sprinkled with the 
blood of a boy who never had a father. ]\Ierlin is 
brought before him and instantly tells the cause of the 
tower's weakness. He is gifted with foreseeing power, 
with a knowledge of all mysteries. He moves by magic 
the huge stones for Stonehenge from Ireland; by magic 
he enables King Uther to gain access to the lady Ygerna, 
and thus becomes accountable for the birth of Arthur. 
Among the Continental writers there was a belief that 
Merlin was an own son of the devil; but later scribes 
removed this slight hereditary defect by having him 
baptized the moment he is bom, and thus the wizard, 
although stooping to many Satanical tricks, is almost 
invariably on the side of good. Robert de Borron, who 
improved on Geoffrey by giving us a connected life of 
Merlin, was probably the author who invented this de- 
vice of hasty christening. The child, whether of devil 
or human father, was indeed a wonder. When barely 
eighteen months old he defended his mother against an 
accusation of adultery and proved the judge's own 
mother to be the guilty party; at five he was chief 
counsellor to the king. 

It should, therefore, not be at all surprising that 
lengthy poetical and prose romances gathered about 
him in France, Germany, and England. Before 1290 
some Englishman, possibly a priest, had written a long 
and strong poem entitled Arthur and Merlin, while the 
wizard's love affairs and the tradition that he 
had intimate relations with a fay — doubtless the or- 

99 



ENGLISH FICTION 

igin of the cunnirig Ninian — were the inspiration 
of numerous lays and stories. The odds and ends of 
magic gathered about him. Even when his course was 
run and, with all his wisdom, he had not been wise 
enough to resist the wiles of a woman, the ancient Welsh 
conception of an air-castle came forward, and furnished 
a means for his eternal captivity and his eternal sleep. 
Great was the fame and popularity of Merlin of 
Wales. He was a prophet, and his prophecies always 
favored the Welsh; he was a magician and his tricks 
ever overcame evil. He was another figure that the 
people did not gladly let die. As late as the Great 
Plague of 1665, according to Defoe, fortune-tellers still 
displayed a head or picture of Merlin as a symbol of 
their profession. 

THE HOLY GRAIL STORY 

There came at length to the knights of the Round 
Table one great idealistic motive — the quest of the 
Holy Grail. Around this worshipful object centered 
all adventures, all desires, all high ambitions. It lifted 
the legend out of the sphere of ordinary romantic ad- 
ventures and re-created it as one of the loftiest sym- 
bolical literatures created by man. "Through the 
stories of the Grail the land of Britain was glorified as 
the first seat of the Church of Christ, and the abiding- 
place for ages of the most precious relics of His cross 
and passion." The adventures might be commonplace 
incidents in the career of the conventional knight; but 
nevermore could mere personal ambition or love of vic- 
tory and praise be the guiding motive. The magic bowl 
or cup was indeed but an old familiar figure in Celtic 

100 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

lore ; but, onee connected with the sufferings of the 
Saviour, it bestowed a purity, a delicate strain of tender 
devotion, and a holy light not found in any other cycle. 

The Irish, Welsh, or Celtic Grail was at first a mar- 
velous food-producing ' vessel ; but probably before the 
close of the eleventh century it had become associated 
with the cup in which Joseph of Arimathea caught 
Christ's blood, and the ancient tradition that Joseph 
had brought Christianity to England and that Glaston- 
bury, where Arthur had sometime been, was the first 
seat of the British Church, made the association plausi- 
ble and easy. Joseph had been cast into prison for 
giving Jesus a decent burial, and the cup had sustained 
him there forty years. Then, set at liberty, he had 
wandered far and wide, displaying the holy vessel on 
a table which was to be the model of the famous Round 
Table. In English the versions of the story were not nu- 
merous, there being little more than a few lives of Joseph 
and the account by Malory. For three centuries before 
Malory, however, there had been lengthy French poems 
dealing with the theme, and these were undoubtedly 
based on folk-lore of hoary antiquity. 

When Walter Map entered with his Quest e del St. 
Graal, he gave through his delicate art a prominence to 
the theme that it had not hitherto enjoyed in the Round 
Table legend. Walter Map knew that his work was 
significant, that it would have a national importance. 
Henry II, who desired the support of the Welsh and 
who had rebuilt the church at Glastonbury and had 
claimed that Arthur's grave had been discovered there, 
praised, favored, and advertised the romances of the 
talented Walter. 

101 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Then, from the great mass of French material, that 
genius, Malory, selected this incident and that, and 
merged the cup-theme for all time with the Authurian 
story. A wonderfully dignified legend it was by this 
time, picturesque and strong, filled with lofty idealism, 
longings, temptations, sufferings, defeats, and victories. 
There are stains of infidelity and unfaithfulness, tinges 
of human weakness; but through it all there is enough 
of the symbolism of the Christian struggle toward per- 
fection to carry it safely down through the ages. 

THE MORTE D 'ARTHUR STORY 

It was an ideal that ruined the Round Table — the 
ideal of the Grail. The knights became star-gazers. 
With their heads in the heavens, they forgot to keep 
their feet planted solidly upon the earth. Busily en- 
gaged in the high and noble search for the ideal, they 
did not discover until too late the seeds of destruction 
planted in their midst ; in the search for perfection they 
forgot to make perfect the every-day, commonplace 
deeds of life. And Arthur, the impractical star-gazer, 
suffered unto the death because of his visions; his air- 
castles were not built upon the Eock of Common Sense. 
And thus we come to the Morie d' Arthur story. 

At first the term was applied simply to the episode 
dealing with the actual ending of Arthur, but in time 
the closing scene was extended backward until the words 
came to mean the entire story of his life. The tradition 
of his last struggle for Britain must have very early 
developed a literary form; for by 1330 we find a four- 
thousand-line Middle English poem, Morte Arthur, in 
which Lancelot, Gawain, and other figures of the Round 

102 



THE FICTION OF NORMAN ENGLAND 

Table enter, and a detailed and stirring description of 
the last hours of the "blameless prince." Among the 
Normans the story was expanded ; by 1350 it had spread 
through Scotland; and we find at least one worthy 
poem, entitled simply Arthur, imbedded in a dull Latin 
chronicle. And, now, as each nation, England, France, 
Scotland, or Wales, began to use the romance as a means 
of self-glorification, as a means of pouring forth bitter 
hatred for an enemy, incident after incident was placed 
before the death scene, until, as has been said, the entire 
legend gained the now immortal title, Morte d' Arthur. 
And it was Malory who made it immortal. With the 
fine discrimination of a true artist, he culled from the 
world of literature massed about the king, and brought 
him forth England's darling. 

It was a prolific period — those Norman centuries in 
England. The innumerable currents of the world's 
traditions flowed into these islands; Britain became a 
land of dreams. The legends of Greek and barbarian, 
Jew and Gentile, Christian and heathen, met and min- 
gled here, and, ever above all and drawing all to it like 
a magnet, stood the magical figure of Arthur. The age 
was indeed "the Ocean of the Rivers of Story." 



103 



CHAPTER IV 

The Fiction of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth 
Centuries 

national changes 

Previous to 1360 there had been in England a thor- 
ough but not sudden or violent breaking up and re- 
shaping of institutions, customs, language and litera- 
ture. The conservativeness of the Anglo-Saxon nature 
and the fact that the Norman rulers in England still 
held large possessions in France retarded the nation in 
the process of becoming a perfect unity; and that final 
unity came only when the Norman had given up prac- 
tically everything and the native Englishman little or 
nothing. Now, however, after 1350 political and intel- 
lectual slavery were dwindling away under the infor- 
mation, new ideas, alertness, and confidence gained 
through war, commerce, and travel. The peasant had 
now become an important factor in all struggles. The 
common folk were constantly advancing, and their rep- 
resentatives in Parliament grasped more and more 
power. In 1330 Edward defeated the Scotch through 
the aid of the humbler soldiers; the battles of Crecy 
in 1346 and Poitiers in 1356 were won by English yeo- 
men ; the Black Death from 1348 to 1369 made laborers 
so scarce that they could demand a comfortable living 
wage; in 1381 Wat Tyler's Rebellion revealed anew 

104 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

their growing ambition. Feudalism and chivalry were 
dying hard; but the end was not far off and was has- 
tened by the contemptible conduct of the higher classes. 
At Crecy the French knights cut down the foot-soldiers 
in front of them so that they themselves might be the 
first to display their valor. After the Black Death an 
attempt was made in England to bind the workmen to 
the noblemen's estates. A lack of regard for the feel- 
ings of the common man caused the Tyler and Ball re- 
volts, and, though the brief campaigns were failures, 
they gained for labor a greater share of national regard 
and respect. The Church, instead of aiding such 
classes, was more nearly a hindrance. But through the 
passionate words of such reformers as Langland and 
Wickliffe a wide interest in religious duties and rights 
was created, and the Church itself was given a new life. 
These circumstances, together with the increase of 
commerce and the wide travels of English sailors and 
the consequent increase of broadening information, made 
the last years of the fourteenth century a period rather 
akin to the Elizabethan Era in its energy, ambitions, and 
intense desire for self-expression. In 1362 Langland 's 
Piers Plowman appeared, in 1366 Chaucer's Bomaunt 
of the Rose, in 1387 the Canterhury Tales, in 1393 
Gower's Confessio Amantis, and near 1400 Mandeville's 
Travels. Great numbers of French words were ad- 
mitted during the first half of the century, and even 
such a prominent writer as Gower seems to have been 
in doubt as to what language would survive as a literary 
medium, and therefore wrote in Latin, French, and 
English. The example of Chaucer, Langland, and 
Wickliffe, however, did much toward settling the ques- 

105 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tion, while the immense importance of London inevit- 
ably made the East Midland English the national 
tongue. 

It was indeed a picturesque day. Along the roads 
leading out from London might be found innumerable 
fakirs, medicine-men, mountebanks, pardoners, begging 
brothers, tricksters of every sort. The quacks offered 
you the identical powder that had made Venus and 
Helen beautiful; a friend of the fakir had found it in 
the ruins of Troy. Friars showed you eases of pigs' 
bones and swore that they were saints' bones. A piece 
of linen stained with walnut juice was the identical 
napkin that covered the dead Saviour's face. Sleek- 
faced churchmen galloped past with bags of pardons 
"hot from Rome" — pardons that forgave you all the 
sins you ever had committed and all you should commit 
for a certain time in the future — all this for a consider- 
ation, of course. Astrologers offered to tell you what 
your "fortune star" was, and alchemists assured you 
that they would soon discover the ' ' philosopher 's stone, ' ' 
the element that would turn all matter into gold. These 
alchemists were men of mystery ; they spoke and wrote a 
language of deep and hidden meaning. Hear the gold- 
producing formula of the fourteenth century alchemist, 
Armand de Villeneuve: 

"Know, my son, that in this chapter I shall teach 
thee the preparation of the Philosophers' Stone. 

"As the world was lost through woman, it is neces- 
sary also that it be saved by her. For this reason, take 
the mother, place her in bed with her eight sons ; watch 
her; she must do strict penance until she be washed of 
all her sins. Then she will give to the world a son who 

106 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

will sin. Signs have appeared in the sun and moon; 
seize this son and chastise him, so that pride may not 
ruin him. This done, replace him in his bed and when 
thou seest that he is in his right mind seize him again 
and give him to the Jews to be crucified. The Sun be- 
ing thus crucified, the Moon will no longer be seen, the 
veil of the temple rent, and there will be a great earth- 
quake. Then it is time to use much fire, and a spirit 
that shall deceive the whole world will be seen to 
arise. ' ' ^ 

What does this all mean? ''Take the mother." 
Take mercury, the mother of all metals; place her in 
bed, the crucible, with her eight sons, lead, iron, tin, 
etc. ; watch her closely till all has melted. She will give 
a son to the world in the form of a yellow surface or 
coating, which must be purified into true gold. The 
signs in the sun and moon are the colors of gold and 
silver. Grasping the gold means taking the gold from 
the crucible and chastising or beating it. Then, hav- 
ing been replaced in its bed and having regained its 
senses by being remelted, it is given to the Jews by being 
treated with niter and carbon. Then there will be a 
great disturbance in the crucible and the metallic crust 
or veil will be rent, and by the use of much fire the anti- 
mony Mall give forth a "spirit" in the form of scintil- 
lant light. This spirit, forming a mass at the bottom 
of the vessel, contains the gold. 

Against such quackery, as well as against the lustful 

lives of the monks, nuns, and pardon-selling agents, 

Wickliffe thundered seemingly in vain. His followers, 

knoMTi as Lollards, were bitterly persecuted early in the 

1 Cosmos. March 28, 1908. 

107 



ENGLISH FICTION 

fifteenth century, and the universities, siding with the 
traditional views, aided in such persecution and stulti- 
fied themselves by requiring rigid conformity among 
the students. Learning sank ; the land was full of fool- 
ish teachers. Physicians without a degree or regular 
training administered violent poisons to patients or to 
dummies who fortunately sometimes took the place of 
the sick in receiving the nostrums. As we read Chau- 
cer's Prologue to the Canterbury Tales we are apt to 
wonder if the nation had fallen into moral rottenness. 
The "sumnour" had authority over the girls in the 
parish and had made many a marriage at his own cost; 
the reeve became rich on his master's money and then 
lent the bankrupt nobleman this wealth at ruinous in- 
terest; the merchants were smugglers and sometimes 
pirates; the miller had a "golden thumb" in taking 
toll; the monk wore a love-knot, and the nun a brooch 
with the inscription: Amor vincit omnia. 

French examples had not greatly changed the man- 
ners of the middle and low classes. Chaucer notes the 
remarkable facts that the nun did not snatch for food 
at the table, did not thrust her fingers deep into the 
common gravy dish, and wiped her lip so clean that she 
left no skimming of grease in her cup when she drank. 
Under the table the dogs gnawed loudly on the bones 
thrown to them as the meal progressed, while on the 
backs of the chairs or sometimes on the table falcons 
perched and snatched at the bread. The jokes and 
tales were often most vulgar; but the women seem to 
have listened without protest. 

Secretly at all times there was great discontent among 
all classes. Henry IV, though not in the direct line of 

108 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

succession, had seized the throne and had thus aroused 
the ire of a number of the aristocrats. Henry V avoided 
trouble at home by causing trouble abroad. The great 
battle of Agiucourt occurred, and France seemed a dying 
kingdom. Then came Joan of Arc and lifted once more 
the hopes of England's ancient enemy. The War of 
the Roses followed with its years of bloodshed, and the 
aristocratic class was almost annihilated. Suffering it 
undoubtedly caused; but it once more asserted the im- 
portance of the common folk and destroyed for all time 
the iniquitous feudal system. 

But looking only at the surface of society in those 
early days, one would never have judged that discon- 
tent was wide-spread. The old ballads, now at the 
height of their popularity, were heard by every road- 
side; in the towns the mystery and miracle plays at- 
tracted the multitude; the harp, the lute, and the bag- 
pipe made every procession gay. Music and song and 
story were as popular as ever. The musicians played in 
the castle at meal-time; four hundred and twenty-six 
of them performed at one wedding of the day; the 
minstrels were still so important that in the fifteenth 
century Parliament condemned them as the cause of a 
Welsh rebellion. Their songs were by no means always 
uplifting. With the jugglers and acrobats they some- 
times presented the Salome dance in a manner that 
would have shocked even the modern metropolitan au- 
dience, and even as late as the sixteenth century Phillip 
Stubbes could truthfully say in his Anatomy of Abuses: 
"Every town, citie, and country is full of these min- 
strelles to pype up a dance to the devill." Their bal- 
lads and narratives frequently had, however, a demo- 

109 



ENGLISH FICTION 

cratic tone, and on occasions of popular political 
movements they undoubtedly played an important part 
in voicing the sentiments of the expressionless multi- 
tude. Thus, John Ball took as the text of his famous 
speech at Blackheath in 1381 the old minstrel song : 

When Adam delved and Eve span. 
Who was then the gentleman? 

LITERARY CONDITIONS 

After the death of Chaucer the era was not exceed- 
ingly fruitful in literature; it was a time of rest and 
waiting before the coming of the Renaissance. We shall 
see, however, that fiction still had its numerous devo- 
tees. None of them, it is true, could tell a story as 
Chaucer could; but nearly all wrote fairly interesting 
if not strikingly original narratives. 

For the most part, the same old romantic themes were 
being worked over and over, becoming more tiresome 
and more stale with each successive revision. Here and 
there such geniuses as Malory and Caxton added a 
fresh touch of art to the ancient themes; but in the 
main the repeated versions were scarcely worth the tell- 
ing. So far adventure had been the principal and al- 
most the only element in fiction, and the lesser spirits 
of the age still failed to perceive the need of the new 
element soon to enter; namely, character portrayal. 
"The creations of romantic fiction were unreal beings 
distinguished by different names, by the different in- 
signia of their shields, and by the degree in which they 
possessed the special qualities which formed the ideal 
of medieval times. The story of their lives was but a 

110 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

series of adventures strung together without plan, the 
overflow of an active but ungoverned imagination, ' ' ^ 

A few men, however, as has been indicated, saw the 
new need and answered it. The figures in Langland's 
Piers Plowman frequently act like real men and women 
in real life; the jolly company that Chaucer led to 
Canterbury was composed of living, thinking souls, 
human mixtures of the earthy and the divine. In- 
deed, the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales is one of 
the greatest character sketches in all literature. This 
was truly a new note in English letters. These men 
and women do, indeed, tell some of the old-time stories; 
but the story-tellers themselves speak with the modem 
spirit. They are not a set type; there is friction as 
well as fiction in the group. No longer are the knights 
and the warriors bold the only persons worthy of con- 
sideration. The preacher, the merchant, the scholar, 
the lawyer, the merry widow, even the miller and the 
cook are brought before us to tell of life from their 
view-point. 

The common people had risen through the expen- 
siveness and self-destructiveness of this very institution 
of chivalry, and they dared to scoff openly at the old 
idea of a divinity's resting in Arthurian or any other 
kind of knights. Robin Hood probably was more to 
their liking, and their stories were frequently tinged 
with democracy and almost with rebellion. Robin 
Hood was applauded for beating fat, avaricious church- 
men, while Langland dared to condemn those of the 
Church and State who used their power to oppress the 
humble. 

2 Tuckerman: History of English Prose Fiction, p. 42, 

111 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Tales of wonder were, of course, still welcome. 
"Friar Bacon," possibly founded on traditions of the 
philosopher, Roger Bacon, of the thirteenth century, 
made a brazen head which could talk, and he had in- 
tended to put a wall of brass about England. His 
servant, Miles, tried to imitate him; the results were 
ludicrous. Virgil had become a magician, and stories 
of his tricks abounded. By black art he put out the 
fire of Eome ; he made a lamp that would burn eternally. 
Even with so great a figure, however, the ridiculous en- 
ters. In love with a Roman lady, he persuades her 
to lower a basket from her window to pull him up ; but 
she — cruel creature — leaves him suspended half-way 
up, to be the object of the city's sarcastic remarks. 
Tales of the Nine Worthies, spoken of in our previous 
study, still held their popularity, and a book about them 
appeared from Caxton's press. Stories of transforma- 
tion into beasts became perhaps more numerous than in 
previous centuries. William of Palerne, translated 
from the French about 1350, might be offered as a 
typical example of this theme. The werewolf in this 
tale, heir to the throne of Spain, is thus transformed 
by the malicious art of his stepmother. He saves a 
king from murder, swims with him across the Straits of 
Messina, helps him in his love affairs, and is rewarded 
by having the charm lifted by the king's intervention. 

Stories of devils or imps were still retaining an audi- 
ence. "Friar Rush" was just such a mischievous ras- 
cal as would please the rustic listeners by the winter 
fireside. He gained admittance to a monastery, threw 
the master cook into a pot of boiling water, became 
chief cook himself, prepared such delicious food that 

113 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

the monks were fast degenerating into gluttons, and 
was discovered just in time to save the institution from 
utter ruin. Indeed, the churchmen still made zealous 
use of such stories of the devil and his helpers. It was 
a great day for "examples," as any reader of Chaucer 
and Gower knows. Some of the sermons of the era 
were but groups of examples or tales clinging feebly to 
a text. Robert of Brunne's well-knowTi book, Hand- 
lyng Sinne, has throughout its 12,600 lines a multitude 
of just such stories gathered about the Seven Deadly 
Sins; Gower did not disdain proving his points in the 
same manner in his Confessio Amantis. A specimen 
from Handlyng Sinne may be enlightening. Some ruf- 
fians desecrating the churchyard were cursed by the 
abbot, and, having paid little attention to His Rever- 
ence, were bewitched so that they were compelled to 
dance unceasingly in rain, snow, or heat for a whole 
year. The Church encouraged such rubbish. The 
Ghost of Guy (c. 1350), a tale from Latin sources and 
one used by the priests, told of a French burgess whose 
ghost came back and gave marvelous information about 
Purgatory, all of which information agreed, of course, 
with the teachings of the Church. Especially did this 
ghost declare that it could be saved from Hell by 
masses. The Child of Bristow relates how a covetous 
father was saved from the same permanent and uncom- 
fortable residence by his son's returning the ill-gotten 
wealth, and having masses said. 

By 1400 innumerable narratives from the East had 

reached England. The Story of the Seven Sages or the 

Seven Wise Masters, for instance, was widely known 

among even the common audiences. Here, the son of a 

8 113 



ENGLISH FICTION 

king having been placed under the instruction of the 
■wise men, they discover by magic that the boy's life is 
in danger and that his only hope lies in his being ab- 
solutely silent for a certain time. The boy, sent home, 
enrages his father hy his refusal to talk. One of the 
queens then makes love to him; he reproaches her bit- 
terly and is silent again ; the woman declares him guilty 
of making insulting proposals to her; the king resolves 
to execute him. Then the philosophers enter and tell 
stories containing warnings against hasty punishment; 
the king tells one in reply to each of these; in some 
versions the queen takes a hand in the narrating, and 
thus the tales and "examples" merrily accumulate, and 
the boy lives on. 

The Gesta Romanorum, a treasure store for medieval 
story-tellers, came into existence, in England at least, 
toward the close of the thirteenth century. Many in- 
deed were the copies of it scattered throughout Great 
Britain; its popularity was scarcely equaled by that of 
any other writing of the following hundred years. 

Looking over the chapters of the English version, we 
discover a mixture of feudal chivalry and Oriental ex- 
travagance. Here we find King Lear in his Northern 
loneliness, here the Shylock plot with its Southern 
cunning, here classical heroes, untrue to history but 
exceedingly interesting as figures of fiction. Originally 
intended for the use of the clergy as further "exam- 
ples, ' ' the stories generally close with a plain but rather 
irrelevant moral. One might truthfully revise the old 
saying so as to state that if the story had the smallpox 
there would not be the least need of vaccinating the 
moral. Indeed, it is at times a triumph of human in- 

114 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

genuity — this grafting a lesson upon such an entirely 
different tale. A man finds his neighbor weeping. 
When asked the cause of his tears, the neighbor replies 
that each of his three successive wives had hanged her- 
self on a certain tree in the garden. Instantly the 
visitor eagerly begs a sprig of that tree to plant before 
his owa house, and frantically urges the widower to 
distribute slips of it throughout the entire neighbor- 
hood that all the unlucky married men may gain free- 
dom or new wives. The tree, "my brethren," is the 
cross on which you are to hang and destroy the three 
sinful wives, Pride, Lust, and Covetousness. Of course 
the preacher could change the names of the wives to 
suit the particular vices of his parish. 

Some of the stories have the weird effect of the 
Arabian Nights. A merchant, entertained at a noble- 
man's house, is enraptured with the beauty of the wife. 
To his consternation, he finds at supper that, though 
the others seated at the table are given rich food on 
golden plates, the lady has but a bit of coarse meat 
served in a human skull. When he is taken to his room, 
he discovers in a comer two dead bodies suspended by 
their arms. The next morning the nobleman explains 
that the skull is the head of a duke who had been dis- 
covered in the wife's embraces; he compelled her to eat 
from it to teach her modesty and faithfulness. The 
bodies in the bedroom were those of two kinsmen who 
had been murdered, and these he visited daily to keep 
burning his desire for vengeance. Still another speci- 
men of the weird quality may be helpful. A Roman 
statue, which stretched forth its middle finger, bore the 
inscription, "Strike here." A clerk one day discovered 

115 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the shadow of the finger at some distance, dug into the 
earth at this point, found a flight of stairs, and, going 
far down, came upon a king and queen seated in a 
great hall. The couple neither spoke nor noticed him. 
In one corner he saw a huge carbuncle, in another a man 
with a bended bow. On this silent archer's forehead 
were the words : "I am what I am ; nothing can escape 
my dart, not even yonder carbuncle which shines so 
bright." In another room the clerk found beautiful 
women weaving; but these also spoke not a word. In 
the stable were splendid horses, but when he touched 
them they turned to stone. The young man, deeming 
it best to have some proof to take back to earth, took 
from a table a golden cup and a golden knife. That 
instant the bow shot ; the carbuncle was shattered ; all 
was darkness; and the clerk, dismayed and lost, wan- 
dered hither and thither through the great cavern until 
death overcame him. 

All such stories possessed, of course, their religious 
bearing, and most of the other long collections were 
written or edited for the same purpose. The Cursor 
Mundi, an immense series of the fourteenth century, 
wrought out at times a symbolism marvelous in its in- 
genuity. The cross, for example, was made of three 
trees, the cypress, the cedar and the pine, which had 
grown from three pips given Seth by the guardian 
angel of Heaven and placed under Adam's tongue 
when this father of man was buried. These same three 
trees had had a part in the building of the Temple; 
they had made their influence felt through all Hebrew 
history. Religion was an extremely live subject at the 

116 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

time, though the carelessness of the lower classes might 
cause us to believe the contrary. 

It must not be thought that romance died quickly 
during the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Indeed 
more stories of the romantic type were revised, copied, 
or reedited than in any other period of English liter- 
ature. This was the day of Malory, whose Morte d' Ar- 
thur, issued by Caxton, is a conclusive evidence of the 
abiding popularity of such narratives. But very few 
new stories of this kind were being composed. William 
of Palerne, of about 1350, Morte ArtJiure, of the late 
fourteenth century, Arthur of Little Britain, Paris and 
Vienne, Valentine and Orson, Sir Gawain and the Green 
Knight — such romances containing much of the old 
and little of the new, gained an audience and held it 
even into the sixteenth century. 

The author of Cursor Mundi was doubtless correct 
when he wrote early in the fourteenth century: 

Men lykyn jestis for to here 
And remans rede in divers manere 
Of Alexandre the conqueroure. 
Of Julius Cesar the emperoure. 
Of Grece and Troy, the strong stryf. 
There many a man lost his lyf, 
Of Brute that baron bold of hond. 
The first Conqueroure of Englond, 
Of King Artour, 

and a host of others. But the fact remains that in spite 
of the interest still felt in these old stories. 

The twilight that surrounds 
The borderland of old romance 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

was passing away; such themes were being brought 
under the searching light of a more intellectual day, and 
were being found lacking in reality, in human charac- 
ter. 

Fiction was now beginning to break through the nar- 
row channel of verse. The poetical romance had already 
given way in Italy to the prose romance, and soon after 
Boccaccio had set the example, numerous novellieri, 
writers of prose tales, came into the greatly broadened 
and promising field — men such as Cinthio, Bandello and 
Straparola, whose work became well known in England 
and was copied later into such collections as Painter's 
Palace of Pleasure. The influence of Italian fiction 
upon English fiction from this time forth can scarcely 
be overestimated. Boccaccio's books — such collections 
as his Casihus Virorum et Feminarum Illustrium, his 
De Claris Mulierihus, and later his Decameron, became 
famous throughout Europe and were eagerly read in 
Great Britain. Chaucer's blank's Tale and Legend of 
Good Women were modeled upon them; Lydgate's 
Falls of Princes imitated the Casihus; Gower, Barbour, 
Occleve and many other minor writers were under ob- 
ligations to this highly original Italian. Pulci, Boiardo, 
Ariosto, and Tasso began to be known, appreciated, and 
imitated in the Northern country. "These," says God- 
win in his Life of Chaucer, "were the tales with which 
the youthful fancy of Chaucer was fed ; these were the 
visionary scenes by which his genius was awakened; 
these were the acts and personages on which his boyish 
thoughts were at liberty to ruminate forever." 



118 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

CHAUCER 

The work of this man, Geoffrey Chaucer, was the re- 
sult of centuries of English story-telling. The love of 
fiction was in his blood; his day called eagerly for nar- 
rative; circumstances made story-telling his life's chief 
activity. Born in London about 1340, the son of a 
wine-merchant, he was so fortunate as to enter the 
service of Prince Lionel and to advance from plane to 
plane until he became intimate with the highest royalty 
of the land. Thus he came to know English society in 
its every stage and phase, and no man knew better how 
to judge his audience and fit his story to their level of 
understanding. While a mere boy, he was taken pris- 
oner in France, and was even then deemed valuable 
enough to warrant the king's payment of no small ran- 
som. Valet and squire to Edward III, special agent 
to Italy at least twice, supervisor of customs at London 
from 1381 to 1386, a member of Parliament in 1386, in 
charge of the King's Works in 1389, frequently the re- 
cipient of pensions, gifts, and other royal favors, trav- 
eler, student, close observer, man of both the world and 
the library, he probably stood intellectually the peer of 
any Englishman before Elizabethan days and the su- 
perior of any other writer of the fourteenth century in 
genius and genuine understanding of humanity. 

Consider the scope and the variety of his Canterbury 
Tales: the Tale of the Knight, a story of Palamon and 
Arcite, derived from Boccaccio's Teseide; the Tale of 
the Miller, a story of Absolon, Nicholas, and Alisoun, a 
carpenter's wife, the plot of unkno-vvn source; the 
Eeeve's Tale, imitating a French fabliau; the Man of 

119 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Law's Tale, a history of the pious Constance, from the 
French of Trivet; the Sliipman's Tale, a story from 
Decameron, of a merchant, a wife and a wicked monk; 
the Prioress^ Tale from the French of Gautier de Co- 
inci, telling how a child was killed by the Jews; the 
Monk's Tale, presenting the "tragedies" of Lucifer, 
Adam, Samson, Hercules, Nebuchadnezzar, Nero, 
CEesar, etc. ; the Nun's Priest's Tale, the story of 
Chanticleer, found in Roman de Ecnart and in the 
writings of Marie de France. This is but a glimpse at 
the contents and sources of the great collection. Here 
are plots and characters enough for any number of 
modern novels. One hardly knows where to begin in 
this treasure-picture. Perhaps, however, it would be 
wise simply to describe briefly two or three of the tales 
that pleased the pilgrims and show how they differ from 
the form of narrative preceding them and what they 
foretell for English fiction. 

The Pardoner's Tale might be cited as an example 
of the mingling of the old and the new in Chaucer. 
Here we have a story that could easily have served as 
a plot for one of the morality plays of the day. Sim- 
ple, unadorned, almost grotesque in its childlike frank- 
ness, gruesome in its details and general lesson, it pos- 
sesses at the same time that chief asset of modern 
fiction — characterization. The figures in it are not of 
the same class as those of the old romances ; they are 
not mere types ; they are living, plausible human beings. 
Three wicked topers swear to overcome Death, and, go- 
ing forth to seek him, meet an old man who tells them 
that he has just seen Death up yonder lane. The 
cronies, going there, find a heap of treasures, and, re- 

120 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

joicing over their discovery, they decide that the 
youngest companion shall go back to town and secure 
some wine while the other two guard the riches. The 
youngest resolves to rid himself of his partners and 
therefore puts poison into the wine, while at the same 
time the other two resolve to waylay and murder him 
as he returns. This they do, and then, gloating over 
their wealth, they drink the wine and sink down in 
death. Thus, indeed, did they all meet Death, as the 
old man had promised them. 

This has, in truth, the medieval religious tone. A 
spiritual lesson is taught with vivid, almost brutal, sim- 
plicity. Yet, the talk, the thoughts, the descriptions, 
the deeds of the four or five characters give them a 
"humanness" that causes them to stand forth as dis- 
tinct individuals on a real and very earthy earth. 
Then, too, the pardoner who tells this story is none of 
**ye olden knights"; he is decidedly up-to-date, in 
short, a rascal. Doubtless as he told the tale, he as- 
sumed at times the solemn, singsong air of the sermons 
of the day, and doubtless, too, the moral he derived 
from the narrative was not to seek treasures for oneself, 
but to give them to churchmen, especially poor par- 
doners. He displays his fake relics; he hints of their 
power; he is an abominable knave. But it is his busi- 
ness to tell moral tales so well that the listener's soul 
will be shaken with fear and his pocketbook emptied 
into the churchman's hand. It is an impressive nar- 
rative, gruesome in its incidents, strong in its portrayal, 
realistic as the most modern realist could desire. It is 
a far cry from this to the old love romances of the 
Round Table. 

121 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The Nun's Priest's Tale, though dealing with a theme 
older by far than the Arthurian Legend, has all the 
sprightliness, naturalness of manner and conversation, 
and distinction of characters that one could expect in a 
modem short story. It deals with the ancient feud 
between the fox and the cock, always enemies, always 
tricking each other. The ^sopian fables with their in- 
evitable moral had penetrated every nook and corner 
of civilized Europe; the animal epic, such as Reynard 
the Fox, had enlarged from age to age ; and Chaucer 
was but answering a popular craving when he told with 
such humorous and human touches the troubles of the 
ancient foes. 

The cock had lived in happiness under the favor, 
care, and admiration of his seven wives; food was plen- 
tiful; there was no danger; chanticleer's voice shook 
the morning air. At length, however, evil dreams of 
a strange monster began to come to the husband. He 
shivered and cried out in his sleep, and nestled closer 
to his favorite wife. When he told her of his dreams 
she was all anxiety; surely his liver was out of order, 
and she must prepare him some medicine at once. She 
scoffed at his superstitious belief in dreams, and de- 
clared that she could never love a coward; but he, on 
his part, maintained with proper masculine dignity the 
significance of such visions, and silenced her by quoting 
numerous ancient and eminent authorities. 

Macrobeus that writ th' avisioun 
In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun, 
AflFermeth dremes, and seith that they been 
Warning of things that men after seen. 
And forther-more, I pray you loketh wel 

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FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

In til' olde testament, of Daniel, 

If he held dremes any vanitee. 

Eeed eke of Joseph and ther shul ye see 

Where dremes ben somtyne (I say not alle) 

Warning of things that shnl after falle. 

In time the dream came true. The strange monster, 
the fox, appeared and captured him, and only by the 
merest chance did he escape death. The moral is, of 
course, that man should never heed woman's advice. 

This is a little cameo of lowly life. How many hu- 
man touches are found in this story of the barnyard: 
the dignified masculine superiority of the rooster, the 
feminine materialism (if gallantry, permit me to say it) 
of the hen, the love and anxiety of it all, the sweetness 
of domestic life, the charm of handsome manhood for 
beautiful womanhood. These ideas — except the last — 
are so exceedingly rare in previous literature. This, 
again, in its realism is a far step from the conventional 
form of the old romances. Chaucer's feelings are al- 
ways with his heroes, but he never becomes so enamored 
with them as to make them superhuman. The touch of 
humor is always close at hand. This comparison of 
great heroes and deeds to the petty creatures and do- 
ings of the barnyard — the classic gods and goddesses to 
chanticleer and his hens — ^is too ludicrous to miss ap- 
preciation. The solemn display of learning by the cock, 
his citations from ancient history and biography, his 
knowledge of modem legends and literature, his famili- 
arity with Biblical lore, — these bits of absurdity give 
the tale a piquancy not known in earlier English fiction. 
With it all goes a plot skilfully arranged and leading 
unerringly to the climax, and, unlike the romance upon 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

which Chaucer's boyhood was fed, it ends when it ought 
to end. 

Those romances of his boyhood — none knew better 
than Chaucer the defects of their construction. The 
Tale of Sir TJiopas was one of the most effective blows 
ever given them in English literature. Here the story- 
teller begins the same old account of chivalrous adven- 
tures. The knight rides through the forest, and at 
length, having dismounted to rest, he has the usual 
dream: an elf queen is to be his wife. Then he finds 
himself in fairy-land ; he is met by a giant, but escapes ; 
adorned with a lily as a symbol of his purity, he speeds 
back to meet the giant. Just here the host stops the tale 
with an outburst of disgust. 

No more of this, for goddes dignitee," 
Quod oure hoste, "for thou makest me 
So wery of thy verray lewednesse 
That, also wisely god my soule blesse, 
Myn eres aken of thy drasty speches! 

We feel like saying, "Amen." There is no telling 
when and where that story might have stopped. All 
the giants and knights and fairy ladies in romance-land 
might have been brought in, and perhaps the arrival 
at Thomas a Becket's shrine might have been but an in- 
terruption and not its end. 

The fact that not a lettered man, such as the clerk of 
Oxford, but a rough, unlearned man of the world, like 
the innkeeper, objected, was proof that the common 
folk were growing weary of this old style of narrative. 
The trouveres had failed; their incoherent, hackneyed 
plots had fallen short of all effectiveness; and the peo- 
ple demanded something having more likeness to the 

124 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

men and women who lived and thought and did enough 
deeds for seventy years and then died. Human char- 
acter and analysis of human character — ^that was the 
new cry; never again could mere adventure long prove 
sufficient. 

It must not be thought, however, that Chaucer could 
not use the old themes. The Knight's Tale is as truly 
a romance of chivalry as any portion of Malory's Morte 
d' Arthur; while Troylus and Criseyde, dealing with a 
plot used scores of times by early romancers, became in 
this Englishman's hands one of the most artistic, beauti- 
ful, and, at the same time, convincing stories in all the 
world's literature. Why did it become so? Because 
Chaucer realizes that the emotions of no two human 
souls are exactly the same, and he proceeds to give such 
an analysis of characters as English literature had never 
seen before. Here is no mere external description of 
man and woman; the human heart and its workings 
are laid bare before us ; we are made aware of the com- 
plexity of human existence. In this story of the ten- 
der-hearted, weak-willed Criseyde we find a new reali- 
zation of the depths and meanings of life, — a realization 
that seems never to have come to those innumerable 
poets before Chaucer who told of knights bold and 
ladies fair. To Chaucer "the world and human char- 
acter are no simple things, nor are actions to be judged 
as the fruit of one motive alone." He has gained an 
insight into that which was practically unknown to his 
predecessors — human psychology. In his stories giants 
are not all bad nor knights all good. The souls he lays 
bare are the true mixture of earth and spirit. We have 
passed from conventionalities to individualism; "none 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

else of that day can bring the actual world of men and 
women before us with the movement of a Florentine 
procession-picture and with a color and a truth of detail 
iJiat anticipate the great Dutch masters of painting." ^ 

The poem, Troylus and Criseyde, might almost be 
cited as the first English novel. Its story is full of in- 
cidents; but it is not mastered by them. Character 
makes its plot, and not plot the characters. "The mo- 
tions of the human heart, that is his real subject, not the 
march of armies ; from the moment of its birth the Eng- 
lish novel is psychological."* 

This is the chief importance, then, of Chaucer in the 
development of English fiction. Writers before him 
had observed mainly the deeds of men ; he observed the 
motives, the thoughts, the soul-conflicts of humanity. 
Never again can the type figure gain supremacy in 
narrative; every character must be an individual pos- 
sessing his own peculiar traits, personal eccentricities, 
and particular views of life. All this means another 
excellent trait — limits to a narrative. Mere adven- 
tures — battles, hunts, discoveries — might go on for- 
ever or as long as the writer's inventive power lasts; 
but crises in the human soul are happily of short dura- 
tion ; they must at length end, and with them the story. 
Seasonable limitations to plot, naturalness, the study 
of motives, analysis of the heart, psychology — these are 
Chaucer's chief gifts to English fiction. 

3 Ward: English Poets, Vol. I, p. 11. 

* Jusserand: Lit. Hist, of the English People, Vol. I, p. 303. 



126 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

LANGLAND 

There was living in the same London with Chaucer 
a writer whom he never met, but who he would have 
admitted possessed an unusual power in character por- 
trayal. That man was a churchman, long, gaunt, 
hungry-looking, gloomy, proud "William Langland, the 
author of the Vision of Piers Plowman (c. 1362). Lit- 
tle enough is known of Langland 's life. It is believed 
that he was born in Shrewsbury near the "Welsh border, 
about 1331, and was of such low family that he escaped 
bondage only through the patronage of some man of 
high rank. He probably attended school at Llalvern, 
and his residence alternated between this place and 
London during his mature years. He was never a sys- 
tematic scholar — Jusserand calls him a ''vagabond by 
nature, both mentally and physically" — but he man- 
aged to pick up all sorts of odds and ends of knowledge, 
and during his struggle for existence, learned with bitter 
accuracy the traits of humanity. A disappointed man 
— one who failed probably because he lacked will-power 
and concentration — he labored for his bread by praying 
and singing in one of the numerous chantries established 
for saving the souls of dead sinners. This monotonous 
performance of the same old rites day after day for a 
soul in which he perhaps had no mortal interest was a 
dreary enough business; but in addition his poverty, 
his unhappy marriage, and his thwarted ambition must 
at times have made the haughty figure in the tattered 
gown a half-crazed being. 

The story was at first but a vision about a common 
folk's leader. Piers Plowman; but this was enlarged 

127 



ENGLISH FICTION 

a number of times and an appendix given, dealing with 
Do Well, Do Bet, and Do Best. At least three distinct 
versions, known to-day as A (1362), B (1367), and 
C (1398), were evolved. The three versions together 
compose one of the most voluminous, vivid, and detailed 
sociological studies in early literature, and evidently 
their truth and value were recognized in the author's 
own day, as more than forty manuscripts of the poem 
have been found. 

The author sleeps and has a vision. The folk of this 
world, assembled in a field, are about to start on a 
journey in search of Truth and Supreme Good. A lady, 
Holy Church, points out in the distance the Tower of 
Truth and also the Castle of Care, where Wrong dwells. 
She explains to the leaderless army how man should 
live. Lady Meed is there, a beautiful lady represent- 
ing reward or bribery, without which few deeds are 
undertaken. She is to be married to Fals (Falsehood), 
and the couple will dwell in the Earldom of Envy. 
Some of the company oppose such a union, however, 
and the wedding group go to Westminster to have the 
dispute settled. The king decides to marry her to a 
knight. Conscience ; but the knight refuses, and reveals 
her evil ways. She gives high positions to knaves and 
fools; Conscience will have none of her. Lady Meed 
uses the usual defense of woman — ^tears — and then ex- 
plains her usefulness, proving that the work of the 
world is done because of her. The knight explains that 
there are two Meeds — Reward and Bribery — and that 
the world has confused them. Then Meed is ''wroth 
as the wynde." Reason is sent for to judge the argu- 
ments. Now, however, another friction arises; Peace 

128 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

presents a petition against Wrong, who has robbed the 
poor and deceived women. 

The scene shifts often and abruptly. Reason now 
appears before the whole nation in the field and makes 
a speech. The priest, Repentance, hears the confession 
of the Seven Deadly Sins, who, though supposed to be 
mere abstractions, are depicted with such vividness as 
to become living personages. These Sins may really be 
converted; but they must also seek Truth in order that 
their repentance may be perfect. Then appears Piers 
Plowman, a simple-hearted, uneducated peasant who 
shall show them and all the people the way to this 
Truth. Go through Meekness, he commands them, 
until they come to Conscience, cross the stream called 
Be-buxom-of-speech by the ford named Honour-your- 
fathers, pass by Swear-not-in-vain and Covet-not, and 
the stocks called Steal-not, and Slay-not, turn aside 
from the hill. Bear-no-false-witness, and then shall they 
see a court with walls of Wit and battlements of Chris- 
tendom, containing houses roofed with Love-as-breth- 
ren. Grace and Amend-you keep the gate; they will 
admit the pilgrims on the plea of the seven sisters. 
Abstinence, Humility, Charity, Chastity, Patience, 
Peace, and Bounty. 

Yet another vision — ^the dream of Do Well, Do Bet, 
and Do Best. This portion is composed mostly of 
strong, energetic sermons mingled with vivid pictures, 
such as Christ's struggles with the devil and the Har- 
rowing of Hell. Then Langland is awakened on the 
Malvern Hills by the bells of Easter morning. The 
poem draws to a close with a thought of death. The 
poet would know how to spend most usefully the few 
9 129 



ENGLISH FICTION 

days remaining to him. Nature replies, "Learne to 
love"; that is the sum and substance of all good. 

No plot here; not even a plan; it is but a confused, 
impetuous, fierce outburst against the evils of the day. 
As has been said, the story leaps from scene to scene; 
few lead into those following. It makes no great dif- 
ference, however. Sincerity goes a long way in art and 
literature, and this trait enables the bitter-hearted 
Langland to portray situations, scenes, and characters 
that are not easily forgotten. There are, in truth, 
flashes of genius — unconscious flashes; for the gaunt, 
half-starved poet had gotten beyond the point where 
he cared to shine; his whole desire was to show how 
totally the world was out of joint. His is indeed "a 
woful and terrible laugh, harbinger of the final catas- 
trophe and doom." He is English and Anglo-Saxon 
to the core. He is bluntly honest and old-fashioned. 
He prefers the ancient alliteration to the new-fangled 
riming verse. He chooses the time-honored "vision" 
and allegory as the form for his preachment, and that 
preachment is far more important than any subtlety 
of plot or finish of diction. In his way he is a sociolo- 
gist, just as Chaucer is ; but while Chaucer smiles, Lang- 
land snarls. Both place before us the actual life and 
opinions of the times; but Langland gives in addition 
the common people's plea. Chaucer speaks about the 
lowly; Langland speaks from among them. It is a 
rugged story — rejecting rime, full of abnormal, noisy, 
ill-shapen words, purposely made jarring — vivid, stern, 
uncompromising, huge, and, above all, sincere and effect- 
ive. It was the voice of the common folk — the fiction 
that portrayed their life, their sufferings, their ideals. 

130 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

I have said that Langland was truly English. He 
believed in England for the English. He believed in 
the Pope as long as the Pope kept his finger out of 
British affairs; he disliked foreigners and pompous 
churchmen. He was practically Protestant and almost 
Puritanical. Unlike Chaucer, who could smile at the 
follies of the day, he had a true Anglo-Saxon hatred 
for any form of deception. This necessarily prevented 
his giving the full, rounded view of life found in Chau- 
cer's fiction; on the other hand, it sometimes enabled 
him to show, as the more prosperous poet never could, 
the suffering, tyranny, and pathos of the fourteenth cen- 
tury. His figures frequently remind us of the blind seek- 
ing the light, of the voice of the lost and bewildered 
calling for help; Chaucer's are creatures of the light, 
needing no help. After all, perhaps, if the sufferings 
and wretchedness of the lowly classes composing the 
vast majority of the population be considered, Lang- 
land gives us a truer picture of his day than does 
Chaucer. 

Be that as it may, Langland, like his great contem- 
porary, marks a distinct advance made in narrative by 
the introduction of character portrayal. Chaucer pre- 
fers to show us individuals ; Langland prefers to picture 
masses. The one delights in the psychology of one soul, 
the other in the psychology of the crowd. There may 
be, of course, little comparison of the arts of the two 
men. Chaucer is one of the greater story-tellers of all 
literature. However, in this one point, character crea- 
tion, comparison can justly be made. The one is bright 
and persistently optimistic, the other gloomy and stub- 
bornly pessimistic. Chaucer describes the seemingly 

131 



ENGLISH FICTION 

happy surface; Langland uncovers the smoldering 
depths. Chaucer smiles at the simplicity of the com- 
mon people; Langland perceives the strength of the 
nation in them. Both, in the honest effort to show life 
as it really appeared to them, contributed to fiction a 
much-needed realism that has seldom been entirely ab- 
sent in any succeeding day. 

GOWER 

For the other narrators of the fourteenth and fif- 
teenth centuries a few pages of discussion should suffice. 
They were, for the most part, disciples, imitators, lack- 
ing in either the bravery or power to be highly original. 
John Gower, educated and cultured as he was, wrote 
of type heroes and type adventures in the old-fash- 
ioned, monotonous manner. Doubtless he was ac- 
quainted with the same books as Chaucer, and many 
more besides; but he lacked Chaucer's knowledge of 
men and life, and therefore seldom could retell with an 
equally convincing charm the stories he found in the 
manuscripts. 

John Gower (1325-1408) was the aristocrat of early 
poets. Born of an ancient family, a large land-owner 
in Kent, a thorough believer in the divine rights of 
royalty, he could see little good in the common English 
stock, and even had his doubts as to the permanence of 
the English language. Naturally he found few stories 
among the lowly folk worth the telling. Langland he 
would have scorned; doubtless some of Chaucer's plebe- 
ian tales were disgusting to him. And yet he was a 
good man, very religious and benevolent; the last six 
or seven years of his life he spent in a priory medi- 

132 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

tating on spiritual matters. Birth, training, environ- 
ment, circumstances, fortune in general, conspired to 
give him a narrow and prejudiced view of the world and 
its creatures. 

For this reason, as well as for his lack of daring, 
Grower cannot be classed as one of the great story- 
tellers of medieval literature. His Speculum Meditan- 
tis, written in French, is lost; his Latin Vox Clamantis, 
a didactic tirade against the peasants of England, might 
as well be lost as far as influence on a reading class 
is concerned; his English Confessio Amantis, written 
at the request of the king, is saved from utter neglect 
by means of a few good stories in it. In this work a 
lover makes his confession in a formal manner to Genius, 
the priest of Venus. This priest apparently dislikes 
new ideas, fads, and modern ways of loving, and tells 
the lover stories or ''examples" to illustrate his views, 
and also as a consolation. The lover writes a letter to 
Venus, using tears for ink, and displays in his words 
and opinions his old-fashioned, knightly sentimentality. 
At the last, the lover, now old and wrinkled, has a 
vision of the world's famous lovers. The chief interest 
of the book lies, of course, in its hundred or more 
stories ; but the exact and tedious verse and the monoto- 
nous, detailed manner of narrative ruin many of them. 
Now and then, however, the genius of the man gains 
the upper hand of his conventionality, and a well-told 
romance results. 

His story of Florent, which some readers have con- 
sidered even better than Chaucer's version, shows the 
"moral Gower" at his best. Florent, captured by an 
enemy whose relative he has killed, is offered life and 

133 



ENGLISH FICTION 

freedom if lie can find the answer to the question: 
What does every woman most desire? Going forth to 
seek the information, he meets an old hag who promises 
to tell him the secret on condition that he marry her. 
Having agreed, he learns that a woman desires above 
all else sovereignty over her husband. The answer is 
correct; the knight is relieved from punishment; he 
returns in disgust to marry the old woman. Immedi- 
ately after the marriage, however, she becomes a beau- 
tiful lady; her beauty lasts, and she proves to be the 
daughter of the King of Sicily. Here we have indeed 
an ancient tale. The Sanskrit and the Gaelic contain 
it; Gawain had the same adventure; Mandeville finds 
it in his Eastern travels. Gower tells the story well 
mainly because it is a good story in itself ; but he relates 
it in the manner of medieval days and not in that of the 
Eenaissance. Chaucer may not have made the legend 
so dignified ; but it seems more human, while the person 
telling it is, at least, a modern sinner, and not a doting, 
sighing lover of the Middle Ages. 

Yet, the fact that Gower was popular among the edu- 
cated and in his day stood in the same rank as Chaucer 
shows that the day was still medieval. Chaucer and 
possibly Langland were the only writers of fiction dar- 
ing to reach out toward the future in realism and bold 
portrayal of the every-day man. The writers of the 
fifteenth century admired and imitated Chaucer and 
Gower; but they admired and imitated those phases 
which were least modern. Fiction had to wait for the 
full coming of the Renaissance in the sixteenth century 
to free itself from the conventionalities of chivalrous 
romance. 

134 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

LTDGATE 

Story-writers of the day recognized that it was a 
decadent period and acknowledged themselves to be ab- 
ject copyists. Lydgate called Chaucer his master, and 
Stephen Haws declared his intention to follow "all the 
perfitnes of my master Lydgate." Thus the disciples 
wrote voluminously but not with originality or fresh- 
ness, and all built in "the shadow of Chaucer's palace." 

Lydgate, the frankest of these imitators of Chaucer, 
was born about 1370, lived in Paris for some time, was 
a monk in the monastery of Bury St. Edmund, wrote 
as fast as he could, and at his death, about 1446, doubt- 
less regretted that he had composed only two or three 
hundred thousand lines of poetry. Not once did he 
dare to think he could improve upon his master, and 
the more closely he could associate himself with Chaucer 
the more he felt honored. He even added his Story 
of Tliehes (1422) to the Canterbury Tales. Having met 
the pilgrims returning from Canterbury, he tells this 
story of Greek war, wherein a Christian bishop blesses 
the warriors, and guns, cannons, and powder cause 
rather premature havoc. His Temple of Glas is similar 
to the House of Fame; his Falls of Princes is under ob- 
ligations to the Monk's Tale. His perseverance is truly 
wonderful. His Troy Book, of 30,000 lines, has been 
well described by Jusserand as one "where pasteboard 
warriors hew each other to pieces without suffering 
much pain or causing us much sorrow. ' ' ^ His verse 
is often abominable; meter is frequently beneath his 
notice. 

5 Literary History of the English People, Vol. I, p. 500. 

135 



ENGLISH FICTION 

And yet, this poet was popular for at least one hun- 
dred years after his death. Chaucer, Lydgate, Gower 
— these composed the literary trinity before 1500. 
Doubtless the churches aided in maintaining his fame; 
the Bishop of Ely declared that his works led to an 
increase of virtue. His Assembly of the Gods, for in- 
stance, is mainly a sermon on life and death, and is 
thinly veiled by a conventional story and vision. In 
his sleep he is carried by Morpheus to Pluto's kingdom, 
^olus is accused of bringing ruin to the world ; Apollo 
has the gods assemble for a banquet; but Diana will 
not feast until ^olus is judged; he is found innocent. 
Discord and Death enter, and ** examples" are presented 
to show their power. Then Vice determines to attack 
Virtue. A procession of Virtue's followers — Humility, 
Patience, etc. — is pictured. Vice 's host is much larger ; 
but Virtue may depend on the strength of Purity. 
Conscience stands in the field as Judge. Sensuality 
sows weeds in which Virtue becomes entangled; Perse- 
verance comes to the rescue; Vice is conquered; Pre- 
destination brings the palm to Virtue. Free Will 
blames the loss on Sensuality ; Nature argues in defense 
of Sensuality. In the end Death is given a place in the 
world. Morpheus brings forward the conventional 
painted wall, and Doctrine explains the morals por- 
trayed on it. It is very doubtful whether Lydgate 's 
"master Chaucer" would have been wildly enthusiastic 
over this hodgepodge of Christian and pagan theology. 
Surely Providence was allowing the old forces in fiction 
to wear themselves out that the field might be prepared 
for a new and saner form of literature. 

The old themes have been worn threadbare; the old 
136 



FOURTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURIES 

methods have been used until any one can use them; 
enthusiasm and interest must be gained from some new 
source. Aid came from an unexpected direction. The 
very unromantic and unpoetic demands of trade brought 
forth a novel type of literature — the travel book. 
Books on commerce, trade statements, descriptions of 
other lands, were in demand. Real life had to be dealt 
with, and prose, instead of poetry, necessarily was given 
opportunity to picture scenes and relate adventures. 
Mandeville's Travels proved that modern life as well 
as the days of chivalry contained wonders worth the 
telling. True, modern research has proved that Man- 
deville never existed and that a French physician, Jean 
de Bourgogne, wrote the book and created the character 
of Mandeville just as Defoe did that of Robinson Crusoe ; 
but the fact remains that here was a work having 
precious little to do with love-lorn knights and angelic 
ladies and a great deal to do with the supposed facts of 
modern life. 

More and more from this time forth will fiction show 
this trait — an effort to put the facts of life before us. 
The stories may be romantic; they may portray an im- 
possible pastoral or ideal existence; but some concep- 
tion of reality and some respect for plausibility will be 
evidenced, while the various characters will show some 
peculiar individuality rather than the traits of a mere 
type. The period at least gave weariness of the old 
forms, showed the necessity for realism, cleared the 
stage for a new and more distinctive form of actors and 
action, and caused a more earnest attempt to fathom 
the motives and emotions of the soul. 



137 



CHAPTER V 

The Fiction of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth 
Centuries 

foreign fiction 

JussERAND has Said : "In one thing the French con- 
querors entirely failed; they never succeeded in accli- 
matizing during the Middle Ages those shorter prose 
stories which were so popular in their own country. ' ' ^ 
It remained for the Renaissance to bring French and 
Italian fiction into hearty admiration and imitation 
among the English. Curiosity was doubtless the most 
prominent and persistent trait of that wonderful period 
of intellectual awakening; the customs and thoughts of 
other lands were in demand; and the result was that 
a torrent of French, Spanish, and Italian literature 
flooded the British Isles. And accompanying such 
works of an informing nature came the fiction of these 
foreigners. Some of the old-fashioned Englishmen of 
the day were shocked at not only the amount but the 
contents. Ascham declared that these stories could be 
found in every shop in London, and complained that, 
bad as Malory's Morte d' Arthur was for public morals, 
these Continental tales were a hundred times more per- 
nicious. Some translators themselves agreed with these 

1 English Ifovel in the Time of Shakespeare, p. 47. 

138 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

frowning critics ; Harrington, for instance, in his edition 
of Orlando Furioso, felt called upon to write an apology 
and to give a list of the objectionable parts in his book, 
so that conscientious readers could pass by such out- 
landish sections. 

Soon collections of such freely translated stories were 
appearing thick and fast. Painter's Palace of Pleasure 
(1566) contained blood-stirring selections from Boc- 
caccio's works and other Italian narratives, and soon 
Shakespeare, seizing upon the book, was presenting the 
public with the same food under such titles as Romeo 
and Jidiet, All 's Well that Ends Well, and Measure for 
Measure. Fenton's Tragical Discourses (1567), Eiche's 
Farewell to the Military Profession (1584), one of the 
sources of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, and Grime- 
ston's Admirable and Memorable Histories (1607) — 
these might be named as specimens of the foreign fiction 
that every dandy, yes, and every sober gentleman, in 
London fingered at the book-stall. Numerous short 
stories were given translation (so called) and sold sep- 
arately, and very early the common folk outside of 
London, as well as in it, were buying from peddling 
chapmen tales that had been dreamed under the vine- 
clad hills of Italy. Thus the Hystorie of Hamllet 
(1618), originally from Bandello, but brought in 
through the French, was offered in cheap form; The 
History of Lady Lucres was translated at least eight 
times; and side by side with these on the book-shelf or 
in the chapman's bag might be found the abbreviated 
and mutilated Guy of Warwick, Arthur of Little Brit- 
ain, Rohin Hood, and many another legend that had 
come down from the old days. Truly the Renaissance 

139 



ENGLISH FICTION 

had made England almost as fiction-mad as the America 
of the twentieth century. 

These stories were not of the gentlest and sweetest 
nature; we soon discover that, unlike Bottom, they did 
not "roar like any sucking dove." There was in them 
a most dramatic display of feeling and passion. In 
Lady Lucres, for example, the heroine, a married woman, 
falls in love with Eurialus, and, willing to risk safety, 
reputation, peace with God, for the fulfilment of her 
desire, raves in her torment with all the violence of 
a ''penny dreadful." Moralists of the day, such as 
Ascham, might rail loudly against such blood-curdling 
narratives ; but this only further aroused the interest of 
the people and increased the sales. 

FOLK TALES 

Caxton's press had begun the popularizing of fiction, 
and the good, or bad, work went busily on. The list of 
his printings shows a large percentage of fiction; Gower's 
Confessio, Chaucer's Tales, Lydgate's stories, a prose 
version of Reynard the Fox, and in July, 1485, Malory's 
Morte d' Arthur. This masterly piece of fiction — for, 
with all its length, repetitions, and confusion, it is mas- 
terly — held public interest until near the beginning of 
the eighteenth century, and gave way then only because 
analysis of emotion instead of mere incident became 
the dominant theme in story-telling. The printing- 
press gave some books fame because they deserved it; 
but it also kept many alive, not because they were good, 
but because they were cheapened and satisfied the pas- 
sionate hunger of a naturally intellectual people who 
had long been deprived of reading. As we have noted 

140 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

in the previous study, absurd tales of such ancients 
as Virgil and Hercules, now become magicians or ro- 
mantic knights, still persisted, while stories of such 
national figures as Eobin Hood, Thomas of Reading, 
and George-a-Green gained fresh life through the as- 
sistance of type. It was well, perhaps, that these nar- 
ratives of the good old English manner survived, with 
their rude but sane simplicity, else the nation under 
the influence of the foreign fiction of passion and in- 
trigue might have lost a decent standard of morality. 
Oftentimes these homely stories were in still more 
homely language, and to this day we find some of that 
charm which caused them to sell readily when hawked 
up and down the streets of old London. Notice this 
picture of a feast among the common folk, as shown in 
Thomas of Reading: 

"Sutton's wife of Salisbury, which had lately been 
delivered of a son, against her going to church, pre- 
pared great cheer; at what time Simon's wife of South- 
ampton came thither, and so did divers others of the 
clothiers' wives, only to make merry at this churching 
feast; and whilst these dames sat at the table. Crab, 
Weasel, and Wren waited on the board, and as the old 
Proverb speaketh, 'Many women, many words,' so fell 
it out at that time ; for there was such prattling that it 
passed: some talked of their husbands' frowardness, 
some showed their maids' sluttishness, othersome de- 
ciphered the costliness of their garments, some told many 
tales of their neighbors : and, to be brief, there was none 
of them but would have talked for a whole day. 

"But when Crab, Weasel, and Wren saw this they 
concluded betwixt themselves that as oft as any of the 

141 



ENGLISH FICTION 

women had a good bit of meat on their trenchers they, 
offering a clean one, should catch that commodity, and 
so they did : but the women, being busy in talk, marked it 
not till at the last one found leisure to miss her meat." 

MORE 

Far above this gusty current of popular folk-lore 
glided a calmer but ever-increasing current of contem- 
plative literature. And one of the spirits of this upper 
air was Sir Thomas More (1485-1535). That was a 
lovable man — a curious, contradictory sort of being, 
one who for the good of his soul wore an "inner sharp 
shirt of hair," subjected himself almost daily to severe 
penance, hated Protestants, as a class, with all his heart, 
and loved many of them, as individuals, with the same 
zeal, and yet a man who with all cheerfulness served 
his kingdom with such ability as to become the suc- 
cessor of the mighty Wolsey as Lord Chancellor. His 
was a prophetic spirit, seeing at least a millennium be- 
yond his day. Educated under the watchful eye of a 
suspicious father, who removed him from Oxford lest the 
Greek ruin his Catholicism, he gained breadth in spite 
of his environment, and wrote in the Utopia that which 
three centuries have declared surpassingly worthy and 
wise but have not yet wholly attained. 

The Utopia (the name is from two Greek words mean- 
ing No Land) was published in Latin in 1516, and did 
not appear in English until translated by Ralph Robin- 
son in 1551. For two reasons, it would seem, the author 
wrote in the ancient tongue: first, because he may have 
had serious doubts as to the future of English as a lit- 
erary medium, and, second, that the book might not 

142 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

reach the lower classes and inflame their unreasoning 
passions by its socialism. 

He need not have feared ; it requires a thinking being 
to appreciate the full meaning and scope of this strange 
dream; doubtless the crowd would have laughed at it 
and turned back to the old ways. The second part of the 
book (the part written first, however) is by far the 
more pleasant; it contains the vision of that republican 
government where the ruler is elected by the vote of an 
intelligent populace; where all are compelled to re- 
ceive education; where there are few laws and abso- 
lutely no lawyers; where war is unknown because "a 
thing very beastly ' ' ; and where even hunting is ab- 
horred because the pursuit and slaughter of an "in- 
nocent hare" is beneath the dignity of a grown man. 
"By all means possible thei procure to have golde and 
silver among them in reproche and infamie," and, since 
all draw their food and clothing from the public store- 
house, the mad scramble for wealth is unheard of. 
There are no priests in the land, for the worship is most 
simple, and each man is allowed all freedom of con- 
science ; ' ' thei consider it a point of arrogant presump- 
tion to compell all others by violence and threatenings 
to agre to the same that thou believest to be trew, ' ' 

But, turning to the first book, what a picture of the 
real world we have ! Here is Defoe long before his day, 
London in all her desolate wickedness is shown with a 
realism scarcely surpassed by this later master. The 
cruel punishments for minor crimes, the peasants strug- 
gling under the loss of their farms now turned into 
pastures, the tyranny of the disbanded armies, the hypoc- 
risy of the priests, the foul scheming of the govern- 

143 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ment, the lust for place and fame, the burden of war 
and display — all these stand out with the gloomy bold- 
ness of a Rembrandt. 

Above all else, for our purpose at least, is the fact 
that the story sounds natural. The narrative opens 
with a disavowal of any intention to startle the reader 
with heroic deeds or monstrous beings. An old mariner 
is asked to tell of his travels, and he agrees to do so. 
''But as for monsters by cause they be no newes, of 
them we were nothyng inquisitive. For nothyng is 
more easye to bee founde then bee barkynge Scyllaes, 
ravenyng Celenes, and Lestrigones devourers of peo- 
ple, and such lyke great and incredible monsters. But 
to find citisens ruled by good and holesome lawes, that 
is an exceding rare and harde thyng." Forthwith the 
ancient mariner begins to talk like a human being, and 
his characters talk and act likewise. The descriptions 
are not exaggerations, but vivid and realistic ; the humor 
is fresh; the story with all its details moves rapidly, 
accurately, and surely. A splendid book of splendid 
dreams is this — dreams "destined to be realized long 
after More's headless body had crumbled to dust, by 
that learning which he himself so sedulously cultivated, 
and by the decay, too, of some of those ideas for which 
he died a martyr's death."- 

This, then, is not the least among those visions of the 
Ideal State, beginning with Plato's Republic and ap- 
pearing again and again in more modern times in such 
works as Barclay's Argenis, Bacon's New Atlantis, the 
story of Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bergerac's States 
and Empires, Godwin's 3Ian in the Moon, the Duchess 

sTuckerman: Eisfory of English, Prose Fiction, p. 68. 

144 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

of Newcastle's Blazing World, Hariugton's Oceana, 
Fenelon's Teletnaque, Bering-ton's Memoirs of Gauden- 
tio, Montaigne's Essays, Voltaire's Tales, Swifts' Gidli- 
ver's Travels, and Bellamy's Looking Backward. 

LTXiY 

It is a pity that the successors of More found so 
little worthy of imitation in his naturalness and sim- 
plicity. But now came on an age of fads and fancies, 
of vain display and extravagant ornamentation. Lien 
spent fortunes on dress, and the Common Council of 
London felt compelled in 1582 to pass laws preventing 
common apprentices from wearing silk on their hats, 
a ruff or a collar more than a yard and a half long, 
and doublets adorned with silver and gold. The queen 
herself could not bear to be outdressed, while ladies 
of the day tortured themselves with vast accumulations 
of stiffened apparel, wire hair-cages, staves, etc. Pros- 
perity had brought artificiality in dress, in manners, 
and, alas, in literature. Said John Lyly, the father of 
English Euphuism: "It is a world to see how Eng- 
lishmen desire to hear finer speech than the language 
will allow"; and he then proceeded to distort the Eng- 
lish speech into a "fineness" never before dreamed of. 

Euphues, the anatomy of wyt . . . wherein are 
contained the delights that wyt folloiveth in his youth 
by the pleasauntnesse of Love, and the happynesse he 
reapeth in age hy the perfectnesse of wisedom — this is 
but a portion of the title of that book which for ten or 
fifteen years swept English prose off its feet, turned the 
heads of Elizabethan courtiers, and threatened to turn 
the English language into a hopeless mass of intricate 
10 145 



ENGLISH FICTION 

phraseology and monotonously balanced epigrams. It 
was the result of a highly artificial civilization ; it was 
intended for the victims of ennui produced by such a 
civilization; and especially was its appeal to the women 
idlers of the period. "Euphues had rather lye shut in 
a Ladyes casket then open in a Schollers studie." "It 
resteth, Ladies, that you take the paines to read it, but 
at such times as you spend in playing with your little 
Dogges, and yet will I not pinch you of that pastime, 
for I am content that your Dogges lye in your laps, 
so Euphues may be in your hands, that when you shall 
be wearie of the one you may be ready to sport with 
the other. ' ' The author had his desire ; for every lady 
of the day talked Euphuism; the queen herself smiled 
upon it; and plajovrights and story-tellers imitated it 
with extreme zeal. 

Who was this innovator, John Lyly? Little enough 
is known of his life. Born in Kent in 1554, he received 
his Master of Arts at Magdalen College, Oxford, but, ac- 
cording to Wood's History of Oxford (1674), was never 
a good student there, being "always adverse to the 
crabbed studies of logic and philosophy." Yet at the 
University and at Elizabeth's court he was esteemed 
"a noted wit" and "a rare poet, witty, comical, and 
facetious." Writing he always was; probably he 
thought that his pen might gain him favor with the 
queen. If so, his hopes were vain; for many years of 
waiting brought only ' ' a thousand hopes, but all nothing, 
a hundred promises, but yet nothing"; and when he 
lay down to die in 1606, he declared he left but "pa- 
tience to my creditors, melancholie without measure to 
my friends, and beggarie without shame to my family. ' ' 

146 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

This maker of embroidered English by no means in- 
vented the embroidery. The form was an importation 
from Spain, where Guevara, whose works had already 
been translated into English, had made the style popu- 
lar, and Lyly came at the right moment in the develop- 
ment of British intellectual life to supply with his 
labored use of similes and antitheses the national long- 
ing for the novel and fantastic. The plot is but a 
feeble effort. Euphues and Philautus, two young men 
of Naples, are the closest of friends. Philautus is in 
love with a lady, Lucilla; but, Euphues having been 
presented, the latter argues with such clever wit about 
such abstruse questions as whether intellect or hand- 
someness in a man causes woman to love, that 'the lady 
promptly falls in love with him, and naturally a mis- 
understanding arises between the two gentlemen from 
Naples. Now letters of the most stilted and elaborate 
nature are exchanged. *'Dost thou not know," writes 
Philautus, "a perfect friend should be lyke the Glaze- 
worme, which shineth most bright in the darke ? or lyke 
the pure Frankincense which smelleth most sweet when 
it is in the fire? or at the leaste not unlyke to the 
damaske Rose which is sweeter in the still then on the 
stalke? But thou, Euphues, dost rather resemble the 
Swallow, which in the summer creepeth under the eves 
of eny house, and in the winter leaveth nothing but 
durt behind hir; or the humble Bee, which having 
sucked hunny out of the fayre flower, doth leave it and 
loath it ; or the Spider which in the finest web doth hang 
the fayrest Fly." 

After a time, however, Lucilla jilts Euphues also, 
and the two lovers in each other's arms bemoan in care- 

147 



ENGLISH FICTION 

fully balanced i:)hrases the folly of women in general 
and of this one in particular. 

This first book appeared in 1579. In 1580 in the second 
part, Eupliues and His England, the two friends visit 
Great Britain, where Philautus, to the disgust of his 
friend, marries, and Euphues, after much praise of 
English affairs in general, goes to the ''bottom of the 
Mountain Silexedra" to spend his remaining years in 
meditating in thoughts carefully split in halves. This 
is indeed fit and proper; for how grave and serious these 
two young men are ! How deeply, earnestly, and con- 
fidently they talk of religion, love, marriage, child- 
rearing, what not! Always very liberal in their opin- 
ions, they are yet just as positive. The two books are 
filled with deep dissertations on many subjects, and 
from far and near the talkers bring their similes and 
metaphors to enforce their meanings. 

"The foule Toade hath a fayre stone in his head, the 
fine gold is found in the filthy earth, the sweet kernell 
lyeth in the hard shell : vertue is harboured in the heart 
of him that most men esteeme misshappen. Contrari- 
wise, if we respect more the outward shape, then the 
inward habit, good God, into how many mischiefes do 
we fall? into what blindnesse are we ledde? Doe we 
not commonly see that in painted pottes is hidden the 
deadlyest poyson? that in the greenest grasse is the 
greatest serpent? in the cleerest water the ugliest 
Toade? . . . 

" 'In the coldest flint," says Lucilla, 'there is hot 
fire; the Bee that hath hunny in hir mouth hath a 
sting in hir tayle; the tree that beareth the sweetest 
fruite hath a sower sap ; yea, the wordes of men, though 

148 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

they seeme smooth as oyle, yet their heartes are as 
crooked as the stalke of Ivie. ' ' ' 

Lyly doubtless knew he was pricking the popular 
curiosity of the day by bringing in such dangerous ani- 
mals and plants. Topsell's History of Four-Footed 
Beasts and History of Serpents, two widely read books 
of the period, appealed to their readers by means of 
the same strange information. The Lamia, for instance, 
as described by Topsell, has fore legs like a bear's, hind 
legs like a goat's, breasts like a woman's, and a body 
scaled like a dragon's, and when it sees a man entices 
him by the beauty of its bosom, and then devours him. 
Travelers in America, India, and other far-away lands 
were constantly bringing back stories of such monsters, 
and Lyly showed shrewdness in using these monstrosities 
in his strained comparisons. 

In spite of his imitation of a foreign movement, and 
in spite of his fantastic manner, Lyly is, after all, true 
to his English training. Morality must conquer. Man 
must not be overcome by woman. The two lovers are, 
of course, especially long-winded when discoursing on 
love. When feeling love-throes approaching, go to 
study instead of to the lady. ''Try law or physicke or 
divinitie, or meditate sarcastically about woman. Take 
from them their perywigges, their paintings, their jew- 
els, their rowles, their boulstrings, and thou shalt soone 
perceive that a woman is the least part of hir self e. "When 
they be once robbed of their robes, then will they appear 
so odious, so ugly, so monstrous, that thou wilt rather 
think them serpents then saints, and so like hags, that 
thou wilt feare rather to be enchaunted then enamoured. 
Looke in their closettes, and there shalt thou finde an 

149 



ENGLISH FICTION 

appoticaryes shop of sweete confections, a surgions boxe 
of sundry salves, a pedlers packe of newe fangles. Be- 
sides all this their shadows, their spots, their lawnes, 
their leefekyes, their ruffles, their rings, shew them 
rather cardinall curtisans then modest matrons." 

In short, Eupliues is a series of sermons with some 
signs of the novel throughout it. There is really some 
earnest pleading for a change in the dangerous customs 
of the day. Discussing the question of nursing chil- 
dren, the author says: "It is most necessary and most 
naturall, in mine opinion, that the mother of the childe 
be also the nurse, both for the entire love she beareth 
to the babe, and the great desire she hath to have it 
well nourished: for is there any one more meete to 
bring up the infant than she that bore it? . . . Is 
the earth called the mother of all things only because it 
bringeth forth. No, but because it nourisheth those 
things that springe out of it. "Whatsoever is bred in the 
sea is fed in the sea; . . . the lyonesse nurseth hir 
whelps, the raven cherisheth hir byrdes, the viper hir 
broode, and shal a w^oman cast away hir babe ? ' ' 

In spite of its moralizing, its sermons, its petty tricks 
of language, its straining similes and its nice distinc- 
tions, we have in this book an approach toward the 
novel of manners. No marvels are set before us; the 
characters have the thoughts and the mode of think- 
ing of sixteenth or seventeenth century beings; there 
is a real attempt to analyze sentiments ; this paper gar- 
den has some natural flowers in it. True, the two 
young men from Naples often act like two sticks ; true, 
Euphues is the ancestor of Richardson's monster of 
gentility, Sir Charles Grandison and all the other ab- 

150 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

normally moral characters of the eighteenth-century 
fiction; but we feel that here is a distinct effort to 
portray life as it is or might be, and such an effort 
means much progress in the evolution of fiction. But 
of more value than all this, perhaps, is the fact that 
here at length is an attempt at valuation of words, an 
effort to fathom the possibilities of language, an en- 
deavor to gain precision and suggestiveness. From this 
passing fad English literature must have issued with a 
new understanding of its power and limitations and 
with recognition that mere plot cannot make masterly 
fiction. 

lylt's imitators 

Of course, a host of imitators and scoffers soon trod 
upon the heels of Lyly. Shakespeare ridiculed his 
language in Love's Labor 's Lost; Falstaff makes use 
of it in the first part of Henry IV; Ben Jonson in 
Every Man out of His Humor imitated the style; even 
as modern an author as Sir Walter Scott presents Eu- 
phuism in one production, The Monastery. In their 
efforts to increase sales, writers of the late sixteenth cen- 
tury thrust the word "Euphues" into their titles. Thus 
Munday issued in 1580 Zelauto . . . contairiing a 
delicate disputation . . . given for a friendly en- 
tertainment to Euphues at his late arrival into England; 
Robert Greene in 1587 issued Euphues, his censure to 
Philautus wherein is presented a philosophical comiat 
between Hector and Achilles; in 1589 came Greene's 
Menaphon, Camillas Alarum to Slumbering Euphues; 
Lodge's Bosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacie found 
after his death in his cell at Silexedra, came in 1590; 

151 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and in 1594 Dickenson's Arishas, EupTiues amidst his 
Slumbers, added another to the imitations. Some of 
these were as devoid of genius as they were full of 
extravagance; all smacked of plagiarism. Zelauto, to 
take an example, was a son of the Duke of Venice, who, 
having heard from English merchants descriptions of 
their native land, visits the island and is as delighted 
as ever Euphues was. 

A score or more of books imitated the plot and style, 
without granting Lyly so much credit as the insertion 
of the word ' ' Euphues. ' ' Barnaby Riche 's Don Simon- 
ides (1581) tells of a nobleman who visits Great Britain, 
sees the best society, and is delighted; this, as well as 
The Second Tome of Travailes of Don Simonides (1584), 
used by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, was highly pop- 
ular. "Warner's Pan, his Syrinx (1584) is but another 
copy of Euphues, wherein Sorares is east upon a desert 
island, his sons seek him, all meet with many adven- 
tures, and all hear stories and argue, with untiring en- 
thusiasm and Euphuism, on such moral and philosophi- 
cal topics as the artificiality of woman and the vanity 
of love. Melbancke's Philotimus, 1585, is another speci- 
men of a feeble Euphuistic plot tottering under its 
burden of ethical disquisitions. 

GREENE 

Little would be gained by an extended list of these 
minor plagiarisms on Lyly; they show simply the bold 
knavery of mediocrity. A few men who followed the 
footsteps of Euphues were writers of ability if not of 
genius, and one of these was Robert Greene (1560- 
1592). He was one of those wild, uncontrollable, and 

152 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

unfortunate spirits who flashed too quickly through the 
days of Shakespeare. His life was a series of de- 
bauches and remorse. Working rapidly, carelessly, and 
by fits, "he made no account," declares his friend 
Nash, "of winning credit by his works," but simply to 
put "a spel in his purse to conjure up a good cuppe 
of wine with it at all times." Born at Norwich of a 
good and wealthy family, he was sent to St. John's 
College, Cambridge, where the native wild spirit soon 
asserted itself. "Being at the University of Cambridge, 
I light amongst wags as lewd as my selfe, with whome 
I consumed the flower of my youth, who drew me to 
travell into Italy and Spaine, in which places I saw and 
practizde such villainie as is abominable to declare." 
By 1580 he had written a novel, Mamillia, in the Italian 
style, but did not publish it until 1583, the year he re- 
ceived his M.A. Soon he had out-Lylyed Lyly. Before 
1590 he had published fifteen "love-pamphlets," and 
in every one he had equaled or excelled the Euphuist's 
chief traits : ' * his languid elegance, his excessive pretti- 
ness, and his abnormal botany and zoology, ' ' ^ 

Even after the success of several novels, Greene re- 
turned to college, this time to Oxford in 1588 ; but most 
of the remainder of his life was spent in London. Here 
"in a night and a day would he have yarkt up a pam- 
phlet" that other men could not have produced in 
months, and the result was such works as The Mirror of 
Modesty, dealing with the chastity of woman; Arhasto, 
telling of a Danish king's loves and battles; Morando, 
containing detailed lectures on love ; Pandosto, describ- 
ing ideal or impossible shepherds and thereby gaining 

sPattee: Foundations of English Literature, p. 274. 

153 



ENGLISH FICTION 

great success; and Menaphon, a beautiful pastoral tale 
and a work of real merit. Well might he boast in his 
Repentance of his ability as *'a penner of love-pam- 
phlets ' ' ; for his fame was wider than Shakespeare 's. 

Fame could not, however, supply his purse as fast as 
his good fellowship could empty it, and at length, hav- 
ing met an actor gorgeously dressed who depicted to 
him the glories and profits of* the stage, he himself be- 
came an actor and made large sums. These, too, dis- 
appeared as soon as gained. In 1586 he married a good 
woman and tried to lead a moral life ; but his vrild soul 
could not be tamed, and shortly after the birth of a 
son he left his wife and never saw her again. And yet 
he must have been a man of affection, worthy of loving 
and being loved. He declared several times that people 
came all day long to talk with him. But the daredevil 
in him had too long reigned. "Hell, . . . what 
talke you of hell to me ? I know if I once come there I 
shall have the company of better men than my selfe; 
I shall also meete with some madde knaves in that place, 
and so long as I shall not sit there alone, my care is the 
lesse." At length he sank so low that he had for a 
mistress a sister of a thief called Cutting Ball, who was 
hanged for his rascality. A genius, however, finds 
cause for expression in every environment; soon he was 
exposing the tricks of these scamps in a series of pam- 
phlets as realistic as could be desired. All this, be it re- 
membered, before the age of thirty-two; in that year 
he was a worn-out man. Picked up in a drunken stupor 
and carried into a shoemaker's house, he there in his 
dying hours wrote his Repentance and Groat's Worth of 
Wit, frank and rather humble confessions for so proud 

154 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

a being, but dealing rather bitter blows to Shakespeare 
and other "plagiarists." 

Greene is even more inventive in style than Lyly. 
There is an enormous use of similes, metaphors, and far- 
fetched comparisons. Page after page is crowded with 
the supposed similarities between Nature and man (or, 
rather, women). "The agate, be it never so white 
without, yet it is full of black strokes within." "The 
greener the alisander leaves be, the more bitter is the 
sap." Euphues himself would have been surprised at 
the utter impossibility of the geography, history, botany, 
and zoology. A thousand years are as but a day when 
it is past. Early Greeks talk of Mahomet; Bohemians 
go to the oracle of Apollo ; ships sail out of Bohemia ; 
and sons go away for thirty years and return to fall in 
love with their still beautiful mothers. In morality 
Greene completely out-preached Lyly ; every ' ' love-pam- 
phlet" states clearly its ethical purpose. In Mamillia 
we are told to beware of "the shadows of lewde luste"; 
in the Mirror of Modesty we see how God * ' plagueth the 
bloudthirstie hypocrites with deserved punishments"; 
Pandosto informs us that truth will out in time. And 
always, pray remember, England comes in for its full 
share of glory; other women are hypocrites, painted, 
lustful creatures, but English ladies are prayerful, 
saintly, angelic. 

What are the plots unfolded in these stories so scornful 
of fact ? In Ariasto an old man found in the Island of 
Candia, being prevailed upon to tell his tale, states that 
he is Arbasto, once King of Denmark, and once so pow- 
erful that he thought to conquer France. During a 
three-months' truce in his siege of Orleans, he falls in 

155 



ENGLISH FICTION 

love with the French king's daughter, Doralicia, who 
scorns him ; while her sister, Myrania, becomes possessed 
of a wild passion for him. As Jusserand says, * ' Arbasto 
continues loving and Doralicia perseveres in her cold- 
ness; they meet once and argue one against the other 
with the help of salamanders and scorpions, and empty 
their whole herbaria over each other's head; but things 
remain in stata." At length Arbasto by trickery is 
thrown into prison; his army is defeated; he is con- 
demned to be executed within ten days. This is Myra- 
nia 's opportunity. She entices the jailer to her room 
and causes him to fall into a pit, where he dies. Arbasto 
promises to marry her, and they escape to Denmark. 
He still loves Doralicia, however; but her anger is so 
great that she sends dreadfully Euphuistie answers to 
all his entreaties. Then, alas, Myrania finds the letters ; 
she dies of a broken heart; and her father dies of sor- 
row over her death. Doralicia now becomes queen, dis- 
covers that she really loves Arbasto ; but now he in his 
turn, sends her scornful answers. She dies of a broken 
heart. Then Arbasto 's closest friend seizes the Danish 
throne, and the king retires to Candia, where, like the 
Ancient Mariner, he seems shaken with a frequent agony 
to tell his story. All of which is very sad indeed — that 
is, so many deaths in the family. 

Pandosto, Imown to-day as a source of Shakespeare's 
Winter's Tale, is still more impossible. Pandosto is 
King of Bohemia, and, as Bohemia is not well known, 
all sorts of tricks may occur there. The incidents and 
the Euphuistie heart-throbs seem to be the main purpose 
of such a story ; there is little or no logical development 
of emotion; the characters simply decide to do a thing, 

156 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

and do it. Menaplion, Camillas Alarum to Slumbering 
Euphues in his Melancholy Cell at Silexedra is perhaps 
the best kaown, to-day, of Greene's fantastic plots, and 
is indeed one of the best fictions of the sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries. Even though exaggerated and 
utterly impossible, it is, because of its pastoral scenes, 
soliloquies, songs, and bits of verse, a very pretty piece 
of work. Princess Sephestia and her son, having been 
banished by Damocles, King of Arcadia, come to the 
land belonging to the shepherd, Menaphon, where her 
husband, Maximus, has already come and assumed the 
name Melicertus. Sephestia now takes to herself the 
name Samela, and at once becomes the object of several 
violent courtships. Her husband, not recognizing her, 
makes love, is in a great passion about her, and ex- 
presses his turbulent heart in such language as — 

"Mistress of all eyes that glance but at the excellence 
of your perfection, sovereign of all such as Venus hath 
allowed for lovers, ^none's over-match, Arcadia's 
comet, Beauty's second comfort, all hail! Seeing you 
sit like Juno when she first watched her white heifer 
on the Lincen downs, as bright as silver Phcebe moiuited 
on the high top of the ruddy element, I was, by a strange 
attractive force, drawn, as the adamant draws the iron, 
or the jet the straw, to visit your sweet self in the shade, 
and afford you such company as a poor swain may yield 
without offense; which, if you shall vouch to deign of, 
I shall be as glad of such accepted service as Paris was 
first of his best beloved paramour." 

Menaphon is no less Euphuistic in his adoration. The 
lady favors, however, her former husband, and doubt- 
less he would have married her again had not her son, 

157 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Pleusidippus, who had been stolen by pirates and reared 
by the King of Thessaly, come back and fallen in love 
with her. To complicate matters, her father hears of 
this Samela's beauty and also arrives to sue for her af- 
fection. In his violence, the king is about to execute 
Maximus and Pleusidippus, as the shortest way to rid 
himself of rivals, when the Delphian oracles reveal the 
secret, and all are happy, except Menaphon, who be- 
comes reconciled, however, to his former love, Pesana. 
Time and the ravages of age count for nothing; the 
public cared only for the love and the deeds and the 
Euphuism. 

Philomela is perhaps better because less prolix and 
because of the real personality of at least one of the 
characters. Phillippo Medici extremely jealous of his 
beautiful wife, Philomela, and believing that "women 
are most heart-hollow when they are most lip-holy," 
persuades his friend, Lutesio, to test her virtue. Hair- 
splitting, Euphuistic, and botanical and biological ar- 
guments now occur between this friend and the wife; 
but her purity remains unstained. Phillippo now hires 
two slaves to swear that his wife is unfaithful, and she 
is banished to Palermo. The Duke of Milan exposes 
all this; the husband, seeking her, rashly accuses him- 
self of a murder in Palermo, and is being tried, when 
his wife, to shield him, declares herself the criminal. 
Of course, both are proved innocent. Then Phillippo 
very foolishly dies of ecstasy and Philomela lives a 
virtuous widow all the remainder of her life. Despite 
the ridiculous plot, it brings forward a forceful char- 
acter in the person of Philomela. Phillippo is exagger- 

158 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

ated in his jealousy; but tlie wife is effective in her 
firmness, restraint, endurance, and undying affection. 

These, then, are the fanciful sketches that Shake- 
speare readers pored over. And yet the man who 
could write these impossible dreams could portray 
thieves and rascals with a realism that shows him 
clearly the forerunner of Defoe. In his Blacke Bookes 
Messenger, Laying Open the Life and Death of Ned 
Browne, One of the Most Notahle of Cutpurses (1590),. 
he shows his genius for unsparing details, while in his 
Quaint Dispute between Velvet Breeches and Clothe 
Breeches (1592) we find the same blunt, keen-eyed real- 
ism. The latter book is a dispute between the old Eng- 
land and its homely honesty and the new England with 
its foreign airs and antics. See how the barber "comes 
out with his fustian eloquence and, making a low conge, 
saith : 

" 'Sir, will you have your worships haire cut after 
the Italian manner, shorte and round, and then frounst 
with the curling yrons, to make it look like a halfe 
moone in a miste ? or like a Spanyard, long at the eares 
and curled like the two endes of an old cast periwig? or 
will you be Frenchified, with a love locke downe to your 
shoulders, wherein you may weare your mistresse 
favour? The English cut is base, and gentlemen scorne 
it, novelty is daintye; speake the woord, sir, and my 
sissars are ready to execute your worships will. ' ' ' 

We may not, for the present, linger longer with the 
witty, comical, and facetious Greene. Suffice to say 
that he proved the financial possibilities of novel-writ- 
ing; for, according to Nash, publishers considered 

159 



ENGLISH FICTION 

themselves "blest to pay Greene dear for the very- 
dregs of his wit." 

FORD 

Such success meant, of course, another host of imi- 
tators. Of these Emmanuel Ford was one of the most 
important. Using less Euphuism, he displayed more 
improbability and far more immorality, and thus man- 
aged to secure a wide reading for nearly one hundred 
years. His first novel, Parismus, the Renowned Prince 
of Bohemia (1598), may be presented as a sample of 
them all. Here are very much the usual romantic ad- 
ventures in the usual impossible land. Parismus meetsi 
Laurana at a masque, and after much flowery conver- 
sation the couple exchange vows of love. Hear a few 
of her affectionate words : ' ' My lord, I assure you, that 
at such time as I sawe you comming first into this court, 
my heart was then surprised, procured as I think by the 
destinies, that ever since I have vowed to rest yours." 
The two then meet at night in a garden, a la Eomeo and 
Juliet, except that Parismus comes in his nightgown. 
He climbs the wall — which must have been rather dif- 
ficult in his flowing garment — and the lovers embrace 
until morning "to the unspeakable joy and comfort of 
them both." Now comes, however, a rival, Sicanus. 
Parismus turns outlaw, wages war against Sicanus, and 
at length marries Laurana in the Temple of Diana. 

BRETON 

Another imitator of Greene was Nicholas Breton 
(1542-1626), who, almost dropping Euphuism, used 
more immorality in its stead, and whose Miseries of, 

160 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

Mavillia, with its pictures of low life, is another proph- 
ecy of the coming of a Defoe. A more romantic ef- 
fort is his Strange Fortunes of Two Excellent Princes 
(1600), in which a son and a daughter famous for their 
beauty and intellect are married to two other youngsters 
famous for the same qualities. That is all. What else 
is there, after all, in many a novel? Such a book, with 
all its simplicity and prolixity, served to present even 
at that early date the germ of the society novel. Then, 
too, in 1603 Breton wrote a volume of imaginary let- 
ters, A Poste with a Packet of Mad Letters, and here 
again are shown the possibilities of that style of fiction 
later to make Richardson's Pamela so far-famed. Per- 
haps of still more significance in the progress of fiction 
was his The Good and the Bad (1616), containing little 
pictures of such characters as a knave, a virgin, a para- 
site, etc. 

CHARACTER SKETCHES 

Such collections may have lacked the element of plot, 
but they were studies in personality, and they could 
not but impress readers with the need and the possi- 
bilities of character portrayal in impressive story-tell- 
ing. And such collections were numerous in the 
early seventeenth century. Hall's Characters of Vir- 
tues and Vices appeared in 1608; Overbury's Characters 
came in 1614; Earle's Microcosmographie startled by 
its monstrous title in 1638. Surely all the elements of 
the true novel were rapidly gathering for a master 
hand: the love theme, the pictures of different stages 
of society, the study of character and personality, the 
use of discourse or conversation, the presentation of 
" 161 



ENGLISH FICTION 

scenic background, even some analysis of emotion. But 
the time was not yet ripe for that master hand. Not 
until courtiers had spun their airy nothings; not until 
the prisoner of Bedford jail had told of the struggles 
of the human soul ; not until the London bricklayer, 
soldier and journalist, Defoe, had shown humanity 
without delusions, would the English world be ready 
for the plausible story of a plausible being. 

LODGE 

Bosalynde. Euphues' Golden Legacie: Found after 
His Death in His Cell at Silexedra, Bequeathed to Phil- 
autus' Sonnes Nursed Up with Their Father in England. 
Fetched from the Canaries hy T. L. Gent. *'T. L, " is, 
of course, no other than Thomas Lodge, and the story 
no other than the one so beautifully presented in Shake- 
speare 's As You Like It. A curious and versatile fel- 
low, this man Lodge. Born in London, the son of a rich 
merchant afterwards Lord Mayor, he was educated at 
Oxford, practised law, became a corsair, traveled far, 
and while at sea wrote romances, such as The Margarite 
of America and the famous Bosalynde. He engaged in 
privateering expeditions in the South Sea, wrote dramas 
and poems that were the admiration of London, and in 
his later years settled down as a physician in that city, 
and died of the plague in 1625. 

Here we have a charming pastoral tale, elevated in 
tone, dramatic at times, beautiful in many scenes. Eu- 
phuism is still present, but not to a degree that mars. 
Heading the preface, one might judge that a bloody 
tragedy is about to be enacted. Lodge wants the world 
to understand that he is before all else, a soldier. 

162 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

"Roome for a souldier and a sailer that gives you the 
fruits of his labours that he wrote in the ocean ! ' ' But 
soon the tone becomes less warlike, and we find our- 
selves listening to the same story that old Chaucer in- 
tended to use and did leave in a rough draft known as 
the Cook's Tale, the same story that Shakespeare deemed 
worthy of imbuing with such mystic charm in his wood- 
land comedy. 

We are again led into an imaginary and impossible 
kingdom where reigns the tyrant, Torismund, who has 
driven the rightful monarch to Arden Forest for refuge. 
The latter 's daughter, Rosalind, is kept captive for 
some time; but suddenly Torismund banishes her, and 
she, dressed as a page, wanders away to Arden with 
Alinda, the usurper's daughter, who has determined not 
to be separated from her. The couple, approaching 
Arden Forest, find shepherds who pipe sweetly and dis- 
course in Latin about various abstruse questions. It is 
beautifully improbable. "For a shepheards life, oh! 
mistruse," exclaims one, **did you but live a while in 
their content, you would saye the court were rather a 
place of sorrowe than of solace. . . . Care cannot 
harbour in our cottages, nor doo our homely couches 
know broken slumbers." 

Now the love-story begins. A shepherdess, Phoebe, is 
loved by disconsolate Montanus; but she falls in love 
with Rosalind, who, be it remembered, is acting the part 
of a boy. This, of course, gives Rosalind opportunity 
for . advice couched in most flowing language. "Be- 
cause thou art beautiful, be not so coye : as there is 
nothing more faire so there is nothing more fading, as 
momentary as the shadows which grow from a cloudie 

163 



ENGLISH FICTION 

sunne. Such, my faire shepheardesse, as disdaine in 
youth desire in age, and then are they hated in the 
winter that might have been loved in the prime. A 
wrinkled maid is like a parched rose that is cast up in 
coffers to please the smell, not worn in the hand to con- 
tent the eye." After many heart-throbs and descrip- 
tions of picturesque woodlands and piping shepherds, 
matters begin to approach the inevitable happy ending. 
Rosalind is recognized by her father; Phcebe, finding 
her heart's desire to be a woman, goes back to her re- 
joicing Montanus; the usurping king is driven from the 
throne; Arden Forest is full of happiness. Through- 
out the book there is but little character growth or anal- 
ysis of emotion. Indeed, the characters are all too 
"nice" at the beginning to be any better at the end. 
Wherein lies its charm, then? With its freshness and 
its freedom of forest life, it is a story of dreamland, a 
portrayal of what men would like to see, a vision of man 
and nature in harmony and love. 

SIDNEY 

Few indeed are the men in harmony with Nature. 
There lived in Elizabethan days a soul that seemed to 
be in harmony not only with Nature, but with all things. 
The most beloved man of that era was Sir Philip Sidney 
(155^1586). ''Gentle Sir Philip Sidney," cries 
Nash in his Pierce Penniless, "thou knewest what be- 
longed to a scholar ; thou knewest what pains, what toil, 
what travel conduct to perfection; well could 'st thou 
give every virtue his encouragement, every art his due, 
every writer his desert, cause none more virtuous, witty, 
or learned than thyself. But thou art dead in thy 

164 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

grave, and hast left too few successors of thy glory, too 
few to cherish the sons of the Muses, or water those 
budding hopes with their plenty, which thy bounty erst 
planted." Men had it engraved upon their tombs that 
they had been friends of Sidney; the eulogies and 
poems on his death filled volumes ; and when that death 
occurred in his thirty-second year England mourned for 
months. 

Bom in Penshurst Castle, Kent, the son of the 
Viceroy of Ireland and a relative of the Earl of War- 
wick and the Earl of Leicester, he was educated at 
Oxford, was in France in 1572 as a courtier of Charles 
IX, traveled widely through Southern Europe, and re- 
turned in 1575 to Elizabeth's court, one of the most 
versatile, witty, and useful men in all the kingdom. 
William of Orange declared him "one of the ripest and 
greatest counsellors of State that lived in Europe"; he 
was the joy of Elizabeth's islands. It was while with 
Elizabeth at Chartley that he first saw the beautiful 
twelve-year-old girl, Penelope Devereux, daughter of 
the Earl of Essex, and then and there began the tragedy 
of his life. They loved and doubtless would have mar- 
ried had he not delayed the occasion until her father 
compelled her to marry Lord Rich in 1581. Then their 
love was wilder than ever. It was under such a strain 
of emotion that the noble sonnets of Astrophel and 
Stella were written, and it was because of this very 
strain that Sidney plunged more earnestly into the ac- 
tivities of the day and soon became one of the most 
widely known men of the sixteenth century. And 
what became of Penelope? She had seven children by 
Lord Rich, then became the mistress of Lord Mountjoy, 

165 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and had five more children, and in spite of her loose 
life received many dedications as the lady of the son- 
nets. 

Unluckily for himself, but fortunately for literature, 
Sidney opposed any effort to marry Elizabeth to a 
Frenchman, and, having incurred the wrath of the 
powerful, he retired for a time to his sister's home at 
Wilton. There in 1580 he wrote the Arcadia, "a trifle 
and that triflingly handled," so he himself wrote to this 
sister, the Countess of Pembroke. Restored to popu- 
larity at court, he became a member of Parliament in 
1581 and 1584, in 1583 married the daughter of Sir 
Francis "Walsingham, governor of Flushing in the Neth- 
erlands, and died in 1586 of a wound received at the 
Battle of Zutphen, 

The Arcadia, written in 1580, was not published until 
after his death. Much of the work was done in the 
presence of his sister; the remainder was sent to her, 
sheet by sheet, as written. Sidney commanded her to 
destroy it as soon as read, for he considered it almost 
unworthy of his pen. And yet its beauty of language 
and scene, its daintiness of love, its emotions, its high 
chivalry, were destined to make Arcadianism victor over 
Euphuism, and to cause the name of Sidney to be syn- 
onymous to this day with Arcadian loveliness. 

Doubtless the chief trait of Sidney's is beauty. He 
found it in Nature, in literature, in man, in woman, and' 
in life in general. He could extract it where other men 
found only the commonplace. The sonnets of Astro- 
phel and Stella are imbued with it; his Apology for 
Poetry contains the same sweetness and light; the Ar- 
cadia is filled with it. It is beautiful thought in beau- 

166 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

tiful language about beautiful things. It is the poet's ] 
mind endeavoring to express itself with the freedom 
of prose. "It is not riming and versing," he declares, j 
"that maketh a poet, no more than a long gowne maketh 
an advocate; who though he pleaded in armor should 
be an advocate and no soldiour." He found a joy in 
high and in low. We all remember his sentiment about 
the folk-ballads so scorned by the aristocracy of his day. 
"I never heard the olde song of Percy and Douglas 
that I found not my heart mooved more than with a 
trumpet : and yet it is sung by some blind erouder with 
no rougher voyce than rude stile." If there were no 
other prominent qualities, this joyful sense of beauty 
would keep alive the Arcadia. 

But what manner of fiction is this famous book? As 
in Euphnes, Rosalynde, and most of the other narratives 
of the period, the active characters are all of high and 
noble blood. True, shepherds are there; but as Jusser- 
and points out, they are "for decoration and ornament, 
to amuse the princes with their songs, and to pull them 
out of the water when they are drowning."* Basilius, 
King of Arcadia, retires to the forest with his wife, 
Gynecia, and two daughters, Philoclea and Pamela. 
Here, at length, come Pyrocles, Prince of Macedon, and 
Musidorus, Prince of Thessaly, who fall in love with 
the daughters in the order named. Pyrocles dresses as 
a woman and proclaims himself an Amazon. Now be- 
gins a long and loose series of adventures, fights, secret 
meetings, love-ravings, shepherd scenes, songs, phil- 
osophical discourses, what not. Pyrocles is so beautiful 
as a woman that the old King Basilius quite loses his 

* English Novel in the Time of Shakestpea/re, p. 236. 

167 



ENGLISH FICTION 

head and falls madly in love with the Amazon; while 
the queen, Gyneeia, discovering that the woman is no 
woman, falls even more desperately in love with him 
and grows insanely jealous of her daughter, Philoclea. 
Meanwhile Musidorus is making good progress in his 
courtship of Pamela. She, of course, must withstand 
him for a time ; but after he has suffered serious vicis- 
situdes she begins to soften, and the way is soon clear 
for a wedding in that vicinity. 

"This last dayes danger having made Pamela's love 
discerne what a losse it should have suffered if Dorus 
had beene destroyed, bred such tendemesse of kindnesse 
in her toward him that she could no longer keepe love 
from looking out through her eyes, and going forth in 
her words; whom before as a close prisoner she had to 
her heart only committed: so as finding not onely by 
his speeches and letters, but by the pitifull oration of 
a languishing behaviour and the easily deciphered char- 
acter of a sorrowfull face, that despaire began now to 
threaten him destruction, she grew content both to pitie 
him, and let him see she pitied him, ... by mak- 
ing her owne beautifull beames to thaw away the former 
ycinesse of her behaviour." 

At length the old king, in despair, takes a sleeping 
potion; his queen is accused of his death; and Musido- 
rus, having been revealed as a man, is accused of com- 
plicity. At the proper moment, however, the king 
returns to life; explanations are made; and Basilius 
declares his queen to be the most virtuous woman in the 
world, which she knows she is not, but secretly resolves 
to deserve such praise. 

All this, be it remembered, takes place in an ideal 
168 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

land, where every meadow is a shaven green, and where 
palaces are found in the deep woodlands. ' ' There were 
hills which garnished their proud heights with stately 
trees: humble vallies whose base estate seemed com- 
forted with the refreshing of silver rivers: medowes 
enameled with all sorts of eie-pleasing flowers: thickets 
which being lined with most pleasant shade were wit- 
nessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of manie well- 
tuned birds: each pasture stored with sheep feeding 
with sober securitie, while the prettie lambes with bleat- 
ing oratorie craved the dammes comfort: here a shep- 
heards boy piping, as though he should never be old: 
there a young shepheardesse knitting and with all sing- 
ing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands 
to worke, and her hands kept time to her voice's mu- 
sick. ' ' 

Nor are the women less beautiful in this land of 
dreams. See Philoclea on her couch. ''She at that 
time lay, as the heate of that country did well suffer, 
upon the top of her bed, having her beauties eclipsed 
with nothing but with her faire smocke, wrought all in 
flames of ash-colour silk and gold ; lying so upon her 
right side that the left thigh down to the foot yielded 
her delightfull proportion to the full view, which was 
scene by the helpe of a rich lampe which thorow the 
curtaines a little drawne cast forth a light upon her, as 
the moone doth when it shines into a thinne wood. ' ' 

These are the beings that live and love in Arcadia. 
Do they grow in grace ? No ; it is unnecessary. They 
are perfection at the beginning. All are tender; all 
are modest; all are brave. They can stand intense 
hardships, battles, adventures; but have the disadvan- 

169 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tage of being liable to die of love at any moment. But 
though he makes his characters rather stationary, Sidney 
makes a sincere effort to put before us clear portrayals 
of them as they are — and ever shall be. We must con- 
cede to him an earnest wish to give true pictures of the 
life under consideration, whether real or ideal. Un- 
consciously perhaps, he drew us one dramatic, vibrating 
human being — the queen, Gynecia. She is one of the 
greater women of fiction. In the throes of a love 
agony, ready to sacrifice everything to her passion, mur- 
derously jealous of her own child, she yet despises her- 
self, and fights a soul conflict scarcely found in any 
fiction previous to the work of Bunyan. 

"O virtue," she cries, "where doest thou hide thy 
selfe? What hideous thing is this which doth eclipse 
thee? or is it true that thou wert never but a vaine 
name, and no esentiall thing; which hast then left thy 
professed servant when she had most neede of thy lovely 
presence? . . . Alas, alas, said she, if there were but 
one hope for all my paines, or but one excuse for all 
my f aultinesse ! But wretch that I am, my torment is 
beyond all succour, and my evill deserving doth exceed 
my evill fortune. . . . For nothing else have the 
winds delivered this, strange guest to my country : for 
nothing else have the destinies reserved my life to this 
time, but that onely I, most wretched I, should become 
a plague to my selfe and a shame to woman-kind. Yet 
if my desire, how unjust soever it be, might take effect, 
though a thousand deaths followed it, and every death 
were followed with a thousand shames, yet should not 
my sepulchre receive me without some contentment. 
But, alas, so sure I am that Zebnane is such as can an- 

170 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

swer my love ; yet as sure I am that this disguising must 
needs come for some foretaken conceit: and then, 
wretched Gynecia, where canst thou find any small 
ground plot for hope to dwell upon ? No, no, it is Philo- 
elea his heart is set upon, it is my daughter I have 
borne to supplant me: but if it be so, the life I have 
given thee, ungratefull Philoclea, I will sooner with 
these hands bereave thee of than my birth shall glory 
she hath bereaved me of my desires. ' ' 

The conviction comes to a critical reader that Sidney 
gave too free a rein to his fancy. There is no restraint, 
no logical sequence of incidents, few inevitable endings. 
There is little Euphuism ; but this effort to write poetry 
in prose form leads to excessive ornamentation. An- 
titheses meet us often : the repetition of certain pleasing 
words and phrases, the repeated accenting of certain 
parts of sentences, the strained personification of the 
things of nature, in short, the excessive use of conceits 
— these jar upon the ear of to-day. 

In spite of this the book is a volume to love. Its pop- 
ularity far outlived the next century. In the Spectator 
of April 12, 1711, Addison mentions seeing it on a lady's 
table ; there were two editions of it in 1721 ; Richardson 
shows the influence of it; Cowper, in his Task (Book III, 
line 514) praises Sidney, ''warbler of poetic prose!" 
It was abbreviated and sold in a form akin to the chap- 
book; portions were used by poets for themes, as were 
the Argalus and Parthenia adventures by Francis 
Quarles; dramas made use of it, such as Day's He of 
Guls, 1606, Shakespeare's King Lear, Jonson's Every 
Man out of His Humor, Shirley's Pastoral called the 
Arcadia, 1640, and Mountfort's Zelmane; Dekker, in his 

171 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Guls Home Booke, advised all the young fellows to 
"lioarde up the finest play-scraps you can get, upon 
which your leane wit may most savourly leede for want 
of other stuffe when the Arcadian and Euphuized gen- 
tlewomen have their tongures sharpened to set upon 
you." 

Books never heard of by Sidney were published over 
his name ; the Countess of Pembroke, as the inspirer of 
the story, was honored with innumerable dedications. 
Sidney had left several of the love affairs unfinished, 
and had given a hint to future writers by remarking 
that these unsettled portions "may awake some other 
spirit to exercise his pen in that wherewith mine is 
already dulled. ' ' The hint was not in vain ; several 
quills flowing a vivid ink undertook to complete the 
story in such volumes as Gervase Markham's English 
Arcadia, 1607, Richard Beling's Sixtli Booh to the 
Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, 1624, and the Con- 
tinuation of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, written by 
"Mrs. A. W.," 1651. 

Imitations, supposedly original in plot, but modeled 
on the Arcadian style, soon appeared. One specimen 
gained considerable notice. Lady Mary Wroath, a 
niece of Sidney, wrote Urania and out-Sidneyed Sidney 
in twisting of phrases, conceits, and love affairs — all 
the defects but none of the genius. Here the prince 
and the princess, gorgeously dressed, live in a Greek 
fairy-land, and, as the book is written by a lady, the 
descriptions of garments are minute and ravishing. 
Thus, a book written by a courtier for the eyes of his 
noble sister, and for no other, completely turned the 
tide of English fiction and, driving a stilted form of 

172 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

language from public admiration, brought in its place 
a flowery and ornate descriptive style, beautiful, luxu- 
rious, musical, but still unnatural. Not until the days 
of Defoe's plain-spoken words did this massing of im- 
ages, figures, and harmonious words give way to a more 
precise and available, even if less lovely, vehicle of 
thought. 

NASH 

We have seen how nearly every form of the novel, 
in the germ at least, has thus far been attempted. 
Lyly gave us life among the socially high and nobly 
thinking; Lodge and Sidney produced romantic and 
pastoral tales; Greene, realistic and often autobio- 
graphical, frequently told the story of the lowly man 
and even of the rogue. Indeed, in Greene we find 
plausible adventures put down in a matter-of-fact way, 
— just the form Defoe was to develop so thoroughly in 
another century. There was need of further develop- 
ment along these practical and earthy lines before the 
time could be ripe for real masterpieces of fiction, and 
that development came through the stories known as 
picaresque tales. These, based on models imported 
from Spain, set forth, not infrequently without en- 
thusiasm, almost without sentiment, mere statements of 
facts in a rascal 's life ; their purpose was, at times, to 
expose scamps and quacks just as Jonson did in his Al- 
chemist. This was the work that Thomas Nash under- 
took, and it was a field extended by Defoe, Richardson, 
Smollett, and Fielding, and glorified by Dickens. 

This man, Thomas Nash (1567-1600) was another 
specimen of happy-go-lucky Elizabethan manhood. 

173 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Educated at Cambridge, he was a student of keen intel- 
lect and extremely wide reading in several languages, 
a scholar who had fine literary appreciation and who 
believed that "Destinie never defames herself e but 
when she lets an excellent poet die." Yet, he was a 
lover of laughter and perhaps a little too much a lover 
of the lowly. He maintained that every story should 
contain plenty of strong substance and rather con- 
demned the old romances for this very lack of strength- 
ening material. Writing rapidly and often, he pro- 
duced such pictures of actual life as Anatomy of 
Absurdity (1589), Pierce Pennilesse, His Supplication to 
the Divell (1592), The Unfortunate Traveller, or the 
Life of Jack Wilton (1594), and The Terrors of the 
Night (1594) — books not exactly dainty, refined or ro- 
mantic, but decidedly full of meat. Nash boasts that 
he is no follower of Euphues, yet he plays with words 
as Lyly did; his store is rich, and he juggles it well. 
Undoubtedly Jack Wilton is his most famous fiction; 
illogical and loose as it is, it remains the best English 
picaresque story before the days of Defoe. Like most 
tales of the picaro, or scamp, it is in the form of an 
autobiography or memoir; such a form but aids in the 
effort to present lifelike portraits of lifelike beings. 
This Wilton is an aristocratic sort of knave. A friend 
of Henry VIII, he is intimate with royalty at the 
siege of Tournay. But even in such company his native 
rascality crops out ; for he stoops to the trick of victim- 
izing the camp sutler. See him hoodwink this army 
Falstaff: 

"Why," exclaims Jack, approaching his purpose by 
flattery, "you are everie childs felowe: any man that 

174 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

comes under the name of a souldier and a good felowe, 
you will sitte and beare companie to the last pot, yea, 
and you take in as good part the homely phrase of: 
'Mine host heeres to you,' as if one saluted you by all 
the titles of your baronie. These considerations, I sale, 
which the world suffers to slip by in the channell of 
carelessnes, have moved me in ardent zeale of your 
welfare to forewarne you of some dangers that have 
beset you and your barrels, ' ' 

Jack, highly amused at the old fellow's terror, takes 
another drink of free liquor to make his **lie run glib 
to his journies end," and then informs the sutler that 
he is soon to be accused of giving military secrets to the 
enemy by means of letters hidden in wine barrels. Fal- 
staff is in an agony of fear. What 's to be done ? Jack 
suggests that he make himself popular among the sol- 
diers by distributing free all his wines and liquors. 
This advice is followed, to the great delight of Jack's 
comrades. Thus, whether on the field or in London, 
the knave is forever making a fool of somebody else. 

The volume is full of those details that earlier writers 
would have left unnoticed, and that Bunyan and Defoe 
later showed to be the foundation of realism. Jack 
travels much, visits London, Rome, Venice, and Flor- 
ence, and, with a fine unconcern for dates, meets More 
thinking of his Utopia, the Earl of Surrey conquering 
all foes for the sake of beautiful Geraldine, and John of 
Leyden ascending the scaffold. He attaches himself to 
the Earl of Surrey, elopes with an Italian lady, and 
assumes the earl's title himself. He is accused of mur- 
der and is sentenced to be hanged, but is saved by an 
English nobleman; he is captured by Roman Jews; he 

175 



ENGLISH FICTION 

sees all kinds of life and experiences many forms of 
tragedy. Not a few scenes are intense in their unspar- 
ing realism. Note, for example, the encounter of Cut- 
wolf and his victim: 

"Though I knew God would never have mercie on 
mee except I had mercie on thee, yet of thee no mercie 
would I have. ... I tell thee I would not have 
undertooke so much toyle to gaine heaven as I have 
done in pursuing thee for revenge. . . . Looke 
how my feete are blistered with following thee from 
place to place. I have riven my throat with over- 
straining it to curse thee. I have ground my teeth to 
powder with grating and grinding them together for 
anger when anie hath nam'd thee. My tongue with 
vaine threates is bolne and waxen too big for my 
mouth. ' ' 

The victim offered to do anything to be saved. Then 
the fiendish Cutwolf bade him give his soul to the devil, 
and the man called down terrible curses upon himself 
and blasphemed God. The blasphemer then with his 
own blood wrote a contract to the devil and uttered 
prayers that God would never forgive his soul. "My 
joints trembled and quakt with attending them," says 
Cutwolf, "my haire stood upright, and my hart was 
turned wholly to fire." The man's soul thus being 
destroyed, Cutwolf shot him through the mouth lest 
there be words of repentance, and the revenge was ac- 
complished. "His body being dead looked as black as 
a toad." 

This scene drives Wilton to repentance, and having 
married a Venetian woman, he returns to the service of 
the English king and leads a decent life henceforth. 

176 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

Here is a direct effort to tell the story of a human 
being's life, — not an Arthurian knight's, not a Euphu- 
istic philosopher's, not an Arcadian lover's, but a 
breathing, thinking rogue's, whose soul, far from sta- 
tionary, has its ups and downs and retrogression and 
progress toward a different plane. Thus a book almost 
unnoticed in this day shows a long step forward in the 
evolution of fiction; for before the day of Defoe only 
one other writer, Bunyan, gives a more connected and 
more complete story of the life of a fictitious character. 
There had been up to this time a lack of logical se- 
quence; this Nash partly remedies. He makes a suc- 
cessful effort to produce a lengthy and sustained chain 
of possible incidents. He omits the flowery language 
of the past. He gives us no improbable scenery nor 
sixteenth-century Eound Table knights. He wrote the 
novel of actual life nearly seventy years before Defoe 
was born. 

CHETTLE 

Again, there were, of course, imitations of this sort 

of fiction, although not so many as of the romantic. 

For example, Henry Chettle — who spent a great deal 

of his time in jail and therefore should have known 

something about rogues — wrote Piers Plainnes Seven 

Yearcs Prentiship (1595). Piers is a shepherd rascal 

in the midst of poetic surroundings. He sits down and 

tells us, in the first person, what he knows of this world 

of men, whether kings or rustics, princes or paupers. 

In his descriptions of low life he is barely surpassed 

by Nash, and in his pictures of the aristocracy we find 

the same sureness and confidence. See his queen, a 
12 177 



ENGLISH FICTION 

figure from the old romances thrust in among the things 
of a harsher modern world : 

*'0n her head she wore a coronet of orientall pearle; 
on it a chaplet of variable flowers perfuming the ayre 
with their divers odors, thence carelessly descended her 
amber coloured hair. . . . Her buskins were richly 
wrought like the Delphins spangled cabazines; her 
quiver was of unieornes home, her darts. of yvorie; in 
one hand she held a boare speare, the other guided her 
Barbary jennet, proud by nature, but nowe more proud 
in that he carried natures fairest worke, the Easterne 
worlds chief e wonder." 

DEKKER 

Thomas Dekker's realistic pamphlets are also in the 
Nash fashion, — such works as News from Hell (1606), 
The Belman of London (1608), and the Guls Home 
Booke (1609). Here, as in Greene and Nash, are 
touches of the pathetic and of a gentle beauty; often 
there is the graceful or poetical; but the most notable 
trait is keen, unsparing observation. Dekker is not 
overcome, however, by the roughness or harshness of 
his scenes. See this "goodly fat burger . . . with 
a belly arching out like a beere-barrell, which made his 
legges, that were thicke and short, like two piles driven 
under London bridge. ... In some corners of (his 
nose) there were blewish holes that shone like shelles of 
mother of pearle; . . . others were richly garnisht 
with rubies, chrisolites, and carbunkles, which glistered 
so oriently that the Hamburgers offered I know not 
how many dollars for his companie in an East-Indian 

178 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

voyage to have stoode a nightes in the poope of their 
Admirall onely to save the charge of candles." 

Doubtless Dekker's most famous fiction is his Chils 
Home Book, one of the best volumes on character and 
manners produced in the sixteenth and seventeenth cen- 
turies. Here we may follow a gallant through the Lon- 
don streets and observe minutely his fads, his tricks, 
his eccentricities, his shams, his human longing for no- 
tice and notoriety. Here he is in the playhouse of 
Shakespeare's day. He takes a seat on the stage in 
the midst of the actors and in such a manner as to 
hide half the action from the hissing audience. "What 
large commings-in are pursd up by sitting on the stage ? 
First a conspicuous eminence is gotten ; by which meanes 
the best and most essencial parts of a gallant (good 
cloathes, a proportionable legge, white hand, the Per- 
sian lock, and a tollerable beard) are perfectly revealed. 
. . . Present not your selfe on the stage, especially 
at a new play, until the quaking Prologue hath, by 
rubbing, got (color) into his cheekes and is ready to 
give the trumpets their cue that hees upon point to 
enter; for then it is time, as though you were one of 
the properties, or that you dropt out of the hangings, 
to creepe from behind the arras with your tripos or 
three-footed stoole in one hand and a teston [six-pence] 
mounted betweene a forefinger and a thumbe in the 
other. ... It shall crowne you with rich commen- 
dations io laugh alowd in the middest of the most 
serious and saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy; and 
to let that clapper, your tongue, be tost so high that all 
the house may ring to it. . . . Rise with a screwd 

179 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and discontented face from your stool to be gone. . . . 
And being on your feet, sneake not away like a coward; 
but salute all your gentle acquaintance that are spred 
either on the rushes or on stooles about you; and draw 
what troope you can from the stage after you. . . ." 

RISE OF PROSE 

And now, before we may close this study of the 
fiction of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries we 
must see how the overstraining of this fashionable dis- 
play, the endeavor to be both brave and dainty, the 
mingling of impossible romance with possible realism 
brought on the downfall of the old styles of story-tell- 
ing; and further see how the humble tales from the 
heart of a scorned street-preacher were to bring forth 
a new form of realism, containing in addition to ex- 
ternal facts an introspeetiveness, an analysis of emotion, 
a touch of the universal soul seemingly impossible to 
earlier writers. 

Early in the seventeenth century it must have become 
apparent to many observers that English prose was fast 
coming into its own. Such works as Richard Hooker's 
sermons, the Book of Common Prayer (1550), Fox's 
Booh of Martyrs (1563), Holinshed's Chronicle (1577), 
North's Plutarch (1579), Hakluyt's Voyages (1581), 
Raleigh's writings. Bacon's Essays (1597, 1625), Sir 
Thomas Browne's essays, Taylor's Holy Living and Holy 
Dying (1650), Richard Baxter's Saints' Everlasting 
Rest (1649), Milton's controversial papers, and the nu- 
merous descriptions of scenes and events in America 
compelled deference for English prose from even the 
most poetic and scholarly. It must be remembered, 

180 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

also, that the old folk-stories, such as the Robin Hood 
legends, Guy of Warwick, Friar Bacon, and Amadis 
of Gaul, were now frequently reprinted, and the com- 
mon reader doubtless learned to prefer prose to poetry 
as a means of narrative. 

The coming of the Puritans greatly reduced the pub- 
lishing of these "vain" and "ungodly" tales; but 
among more aristocratic circles their place was filled 
by the imported French fiction. This was the day when 
Scudery and other French romancers gained an immense 
influence in the islands; we find Polexandre translated 
in 1647, Cassandre in 1652, Le Grand Cyrus in 1653 and 
Clelie in 1656 ; and such impossible and sometimes truly 
"ungodly" stories were gladly received in spite of the 
Puritans. Many of these translations were profusely 
illustrated, and must have been expensive; but their 
sale was so profitable as to induce many men and women 
with little literary ability to turn their hands to the 
task. 

DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE 

Now, as a result of this, there came into popularity a 
strange sort of refined heroism. The old-time heroes men- 
tioned above and those imported from Paris were made 
more fashionable, more dainty, more particular in dress, 
more stately in their language, much more philosophical, 
in short, very civilized ; and these new traits with their 
primitive bravery made them the admiration of the 
lady readers of the day. And the ladies, in their ad- 
miration, gathered together the literary dames, damsels, 
and gentlemen of the neighborhood, and betook them- 
selves to translating other French romances and at length 

181 



ENGLISH FICTION 

to imitating these. Catherine Phillips was a noted 
leader of such a movement ; while the Duchess of New- 
castle, gathering such a group in her country home, 
attempted romances, heroic tales, dialogues of wise ad- 
vice, all forms known to man — or to her ladyship alone. 
Her Sociable Letters (1664) comes close to being a 
novel on the Richardson plan, and is so good that one 
can see some slight reason for the enthusiastic notoriety 
granted her by seventeenth-century aristocracy. 

BOYLE 

Among the devotees of this French heroic daintiness 
or dainty heroism the three most important were Roger 
Boyle (Earl of Orrery), Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Aphra 
Behn. In the writings of these three one might find 
enough passion and adventures to arouse even the melan- 
choly Jacques, enough sentimentality to make even Jago 
weep, and enough voluptuous sin to make even Cleo- 
patra have a bad taste in her mouth. Parthenissa 
(1664), the best of Boyle's novels, tells of a hero, Arta- 
banes, a Median prince, handsome and cultured, who at 
the Parthian court falls in love with Parthenissa, and 
does all sorts of wonderful deeds to show her what a 
man he is. Parthenissa seems, however, to prefer an- 
other, and he determines to be a hermit on the Alpine 
peaks. Pirates change his plans by selling him as a 
slave, but he escapes and reveals himself as the historic 
Spartacus. He now discovers that Parthenissa, worried 
by a distasteful lover, has taken a potion which causes 
her to appear dead. To secure divine aid he goes to 
the Temple of Hieropolis (wherever that may be), 
** where the queen of Love had settled an oracle as 

182 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

famous as the Deity to whom it was consecrated." 
Artabanes tells his misfortunes to the priest ; the priest 
tells his in reply and reveals himself as the father of 
Csesar's Nicomedes. Wliile listening to this long-winded 
story, Artabanes observes a young knight and a lady 
enter a neighboring wood. The lady is the exact image 
of his Parthenissa ! The poor lover is in bewilderment 
and despair. Was it she, or was she still lying asleep 
hundreds of miles away, or had she died and was this 
her spirit? We shall never know. Boyle abruptly 
closes the tale at this point. Of course source-hunting 
scholars will at once accuse Frank Stockton's The Lady 
and the Tiger of being an impudent piece of plagiarism. 

MANLEY 

This story, unlike his English Adventures hy a Per- 
son of Honor, is at least respectable in its morality; 
but Mrs. Manley's works fairly reek with impurity. 
While still a girl, Mrs. Manley was ruined, and much 
of her life was given up to the wildest licentiousness. 
We may justly expect, therefore, to find indecency at 
the root of all her plots. One of her earlier works. The 
Power of Love in Seven Novels, describes beastly pas- 
sion in a manner that shows her destitute of all self- 
restraint. Her Secret Memoirs and Manners of Several 
Persons of Quality in Both Sexes — her most prominent 
work — contains in its four volumes some of the most 
suggestive chronicling of disgusting crime to be found 
in any literature. What Mrs. Manley did not know, 
her hot imagination easily furnished, and her gloating 
appetite for the animal in man could arise only in a true 
degenerate. 

183 



ENGLISH FICTION 

We learn in this story that a woman named Astreea, 
having long abandoned the earth, decides to view it 
once more. She lands upon the island Atalantis in the 
Mediterranean, and meets a worn-out creature, once the 
beautiful Mother Virtue. These two, traveling along, 
meet Intelligence, who relates bits of scandal that make 
Mother Virtue look still more worn. Mrs, Nightwork, a 
midwife, joins the party, and the current of filthy nar- 
rative is at the flood. Atalantis is England, of course, 
and the various names given are those of prominent 
leaders of English society. That the shoe must have 
fit is evidenced by the fact that Mrs. Manley was ar- 
rested and prosecuted; but that it was a very neat fit 
is further evidenced by the fact that the case was soon 
dropped. This, then, was the kind of literature that 
the court of Charles II reveled in, and the sort, too, 
that lived on into the days of Pope, who, in his Rape 
of the Lock, remembers it in the words, "As long as 
Atalantis shall be read. ' ' 

BEHN 

Many readers will remember that Sir Walter Scott 
knew an old lady "who assured him that in her younger 
days Mrs. Behn's novels were as currently upon the 
toilette as the works of Miss Edgeworth at present ; and 
described with some humor her own surprise when the 
book falling into her hands after a long interval of 
years, and when its contents were quite forgotten, she 
found it impossible to endure, at the age of fourscore 
what at fifteen she, like all the fashionable world of the 
time, had perused without an idea of impropriety." 
This Mrs. Behn, of good family it seems, early went 

184 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

with her father to the West Indies, where she saw 
slavery and lawlessness in their worst form. She at 
length married a wealthy Dutchman named Behn, and 
while living with him in the Netherlands, served as a 
British spy. As she seems to have had plenty of in- 
fluential lovers, she evidently found no difficulty in 
gaining valuable information. In later years she re- 
turned to London and spent her time in writing. She 
was buried in Westminster Abbey in 1689. 

If she had written only her plays we could easily 
judge her character; for their vileness fully warranted 
her title of "the female Wycherley." But, unfortu- 
nately, we may find even more clearly her degraded ideals 
in such books as her Fair Jilt, her Ladies' Looking Glass 
to Dress Themselves By, or the Whole Art of Charming 
All Mankind, and her Lover's Watch, or the Art of 
Making Love: Being Rules for Courtship for Every 
Hour of the Day and Night. Her one famous book, 
however, is, strange to say, very respectable in tone. 
Oroonoko, or the Royal Slave (1698) is a novel of in- 
terest and valuable in discerning the trend of English 
fiction in the last days of the seventeenth century. 
Here indeed is a thorough mingling of the romantic and 
the realistic vnth. a plain endeavor to make the one as 
well as the other entirely plausible. Mrs. Behn claims 
that she saw and conversed with this kingly slave in 
the West Indies, and it was at the request of King 
Charles to whom she told the story that it was written 
down and published. "I have often seen and conversed 
with this great man and been a witness to many of his 
mighty actions, and do assure my readers the most illus- 
trious court could not have produced a braver man 

185 



ENGLISH FICTION 

both for greatness of courage and mind, a judgment 
more solid, a wit more quick, and a conversation more 
sweet and diverting. . . . He had an extreme good 
and graceful mien and all the civility of a well-bred 
great man." 

Oroonoko, a negro, the grandson of an African king, 
falls in love with the beautiful negress, Imoinda. The 
old king also falls in love with her and has her brought 
to his castle. Oroonoko, mad with love, seeks her in 
the palace at night, and is discovered. The old mon- 
arch in his jealousy sells the girl; while Oroonoko is 
soon captured and suffers the same fate. Brought to 
the "West Indies, he finds Imoinda there, and soon they 
are allowed to marry. But of course a prince could not 
long brook slavery; he raises a revolt, has a battle, is 
captured and beaten, and his wounds are rubbed with 
red pepper. Escaping with his wife to the woods, he 
kills her lest she fall captive to the white man, and 
sits, wounded and without food, by her body for sev- 
eral days before he is discovered. Taken captive again, 
he is tied to a post, chopped to pieces, and burned. 

Here is an effort to glorify the "child of Nature." 
Later Rousseau is to bestow great praise upon the savage 
state; "everything is well when it comes fresh from 
the hands of the Maker of things; everything degener- 
ates in the hands of man." Years before this, however, 
Mrs. Behn compelled the sympathy and admiration of the 
hard-headed British for a black slave thousands of 
miles away, and, furthermore, compelled some admira- 
tion for the primitive and therefore (according to herself 
and Rousseau) the noble. This negro prince is hand- 
some^ learned, dignified; men feel constrained to bow 

186 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

before him ; he is a natural leader and monarch. Anglo- 
Saxon civilization suffers in the comparison; the whites 
are brutal tyrants, earthy beings who cannot compre- 
hend this black man's innate nobility. Then, too, as 
a forerunner of Uncle Tom's Cabin, it shows the ability 
of the novel to assail a theory or a practice in a manner 
many times more powerful than that used in a logical 
but abstract essay or dissertation. Romantic as many 
of the incidents are, this novel gains its power by its 
show of personal knowledge, its attention to details, its 
endeavor to picture a possible life, in short, its realism. 
Thus out of a silly imitation of silly French romances 
had developed a work of some strength, containing some 
impossible events, but, in the main, plausible because 
of its natural scenes, its characterization, and its patient 
statement of a series of events apparently in an unex- 
aggerated manner. These are the very elements that 
Defoe was to become master of, and the very elements! 
that the tinker of Bedford Jail, ignorant of French ro- 
mances, was unconsciously developing at this very pe- 
riod. 

BUNTAN 

'John Bunyan, "chief of sinners," in his own opinion, 
and chief of seventeenth-century realists, in the critics' 
opinion, was bom near Bedford in 1628. A lowly 
mender of pots, as his father had been before him, un- 
educated in books, but full of the knowledge born of ex- 
perience and inner thought, he learned to know the 
human soul as no previous writer save Shakespeare had 
known it. His life was one of intense spiritual conflict. 
In his youth, according to his autobiographical Grace 

187 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Abounding, he was a blasphemer, a liar, the ringleader 
in wickedness. But he married a pious woman, whose 
only dowry was two books, The Plain Man's Pathway 
to Heaven and The Practice of Piety, and this woman's 
conversation, together with the reading of these two 
volumes, put his already abnormally tender conscience 
to still deeper thought. He renounced his sins, became a 
regular church-goer, and gained the commendation of all 
people for his godly life. But still his soul was troubled. 
He heard certain women speak of the "perfect peace 
of God," and the longing to experience this became so 
great that he went to Mr. Gifford, a preacher of Bed- 
ford, and through this man's teaching "was filled full 
of comfort and hope." "Yea," he exclaims, "I was 
now so taken with the love and mercy of God that I 
remember I could not tell how to contain till I got home. 
I thought I could have spoken of his love and have told 
of his mercy to me even to the very crows that sat upon 
the plowed lands before me, had they been capable 
to have understood me. ' ' The man who could feel, real- 
ize, and visualize soid. activities so keenly could not but 
produce pictures masterly in their vividness, were he 
to touch pen to paper. 

Having joined the Baptist congregation at Bedford, 
he soon gained fame as an irresistible speaker. But 
when Charles II came to the throne, the Act of Uni- 
formity was once more enforced, and Bunyan was in 
1660 cast into Bedford Jail, where he remained twelve 
years, for "devilishly and perniciously abstaining from 
coming to church to hear divine service, and upholding 
unlawful meetings and conventicles." 

Time has proved that this was the very trial needed 
188 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

to bring forth the latent genius of Bunyan. Long years 
of silent thought and introspection developed his spirit- 
ual insight and his power of visualization until the 
things of God became as concrete to him as the walls 
of his cells. There with only the memory of his wife's 
two books and the presence of his Bible and Fox's Book 
of Martyrs, he penned those immortal lines: "As I 
walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted 
on a certain place where was a den; and I laid me 
down in that place to sleep; and as I slept, I dreamed 
a dream." That mighty vision, published in 1678 under 
the title, Pilgrim's Progress, has been more widely read 
than any other book except the Bible, and to the end 
of time it will remain one of the greatest symbolical 
pictures of the struggling soul of humanity. Those who 
believed that only vast learning could produce a master- 
piece denied the possibility of his having written it; 
but the sturdy tinker put them to scorn by writing a 
second part, wherein the wife and children of Christian 
reached the Celestial City. 

Without pride, without self-glorification, but simply 
for the good of his fellow men, this strange man of 
genuine piety followed his famous classic with such 
books as the Holy War, which treat of the mighty 
conflict of Shaddai and Diabolus for the conquest of 
that fair city, "Mansoul," and The Life and Death of 
Mr. Badman, one of the most realistic character sketches 
in all literature, a work which apparently influenced 
Defoe in his portrayal of low life, and Fielding in his 
Jonathan Wild the Great. Released from prison in 
1673, Bunyan became pa.stor of a Bedford congregation 
and preached almost daily either there or in London. 

189 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The crowds that came to listen were often so vast that 
he had to be lifted over the heads of his congregation 
to the pulpit stairs. Thus in godly exercise he passed his 
busy years. His life was sacrificed in an errand of 
love. To reconcile a father and a son, he made a long 
journey on horseback to their home, and, being drenched 
by rain, was seized with a fever and, after a ten-days' 
illness, died in August, 1688. 

"Other allegorists have pleased the fancy or gratified 
the understanding, but Bunyan occupies at once the 
imagination, the reason, and the heart of his reader. ' ' * 
How does he do it? In the first place, he saw images 
with a vividness vouchsafed to few men in the flesh. 
There is no haziness in any figure he presents ; the deed, 
the scene, the character, stand sharp and clear before 
us. We know forevermore the subject portrayed for 
us. In the second place, as an analyst of the human 
soul he is a born psychologist. As we read, we are 
overwhelmed with the impression that these inner strug- 
gles are real, true, and universal. Universal — that is 
the fitting word for those sorrows, joys, and longings 
experienced by the hero marching toward the City on 
High. Who shall escape the Slough of Despond ? Who 
shall not climb the Hill Difficulty? Who shall not 
moan in Doubting Castle? Who shall not weep in the 
Valley of Humiliation ? And who shall escape the Val- 
ley of the Shadow of Death? 

This man of "ignorance" has sounded the depths of 
the universal soul ; he has shown us what we know our- 
selves to be. There is another form of realism in this 
work, however, — the realism of his own day. The peo- 

4 Tuckerman: History of English Prose Fiction, p. 109. 

190 



SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES 

pie who live in these pages had walked the streets of 
Bedford or London with him; the trial of Christian 
and Faithful in Vanity Fair is just such a trial as he and 
many another man suffered in the English courts of 
Charles' day. He built, not on dreams alone, but on 
the hard facts of this harsh world. Again, in his fiery 
zeal to save men's souls, he disdained the artificial de- 
vices of language; his eloquence is the eloquence of di- 
rectness and sincerity. Macaulay is right when he de- 
clares that Bunyan's vocabulary is the vocabulary of 
the common people. "Yet no writer has said more ex- 
actly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for 
pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisi- 
tion, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the 
divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of the plain work- 
ingman, was sufficient. ' ' 

Here, then, is the same earnest effort we demand in 
modern fiction — the effort to investigate sincerely and 
accurately tlie problem of life and character, not as 
they might be, but as they are. No more fantastic 
dreams, no more dainty juggling with ideas, but the 
zealous endeavor to solve this mighty enigma of hu- 
manity and its soul. This was the man and these the 
books that, reaching down to the dregs of English life, 
and reaching up to the froth of it, too, changed for 
all time the course of the current that has flowed with 
such mighty volume and with such beneficent effects 
through the last two centuries of our social development. 



191 



CHAPTER VI 

The Fiction of the Eighteenth Century 

SOCIAL AND literary CONDITIONS 

As far as moral and intellectual conditions are con- 
cerned, the eighteenth century readily divides itself into 
two periods: the first from 1700 to 1760, a time of un- 
abashed indecency, political intrigue, and tj^ ranny ; and, 
second, from 1760 to 1800, a period of slow but clearly 
perceivable change in personal, social, and public ideals. 
It is doubtful whether any other years of English life 
were more shameful than those when Addison and Steele 
were striving to "make morality fashionable." Great 
attention was being given to purity and clearness of lit- 
erary style ; but such traits were by no means deemed es- 
sential in the style of life followed by high and low in 
that day. Constitutional government had come to stay. 
The Whigs and the Tories became two exceedingly dis- 
tinct parties; politics developed a corruptness never 
known before in the kingdom. Defoe declares that seats 
in Parliament were openly sold for one thousand guineas. 
England and Scotland were completely united in 1707 ; 
there were great victories abroad ; the public enthusiasm 
was high in its hopes and purposes ; but the islands them- 
selves were full of brutality and vice. Cock-fighting 
was allowed in the schools; bull baiting was 9, favorite 
London sport twice a week ; the theaters were daring in 

192 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

their vulgar jokes and personalities. The London cof- 
fee-houses, numbering three thousand in 1708, in early 
days resorts of brilliant wits and poets, were now too 
often filled with card-players. Women showed an as- 
tonishing taste for this sort of gambling. The intro- 
duction of gin gave rise to a vicious form of drunken- 
ness unknown in the days of milder beverages, and as 
a result London's streets, always dark and dangerous 
at night, now frequently became the scenes of fearful 
orgies and murderous assaults. "Well might old Sir 
Roger de Coverley look to his guard when he wished to 
go to the theater. Newspapers and magazines had a 
rather wide reading among the city folk of the higher 
rank, and a man with a sharp wit and plentiful store 
of cynicism might easily gain a livelihood with his pen ; 
but outside the great city there was a vast horde of 
people, both aristocratic and common, who scarcely ever 
glanced at a book or journal, and whose education, in a 
multitude of eases, amounted to little more than the 
ability to write a crude hand. 

True religion seems almost to have vanished from the 
land. Montesquieu declared that every one laughed if 
religion was even mentioned. We have records that a 
witch was burned near London in 1712, and that va- 
rious preachers of the day prosecuted the ease. Those 
preachers of the 18th century — what might not be said 
of them, if modern decency did not forbid. The lit- 
erature of the age is full of contemptuous pictures of 
them. Graves, a preacher himself, speaking in his 
Spiritual Quixote of a fat gentleman says; **By his 
dress, indeed, I should have taken him for a country 
clergyman, but that he never drank ale or smoked to- 
13 193 



ENGLISH FICTION 

bacco." Mrs. Edgeworth's Belinda gives us a portrayal 
of a parson : "It was the common practice of this man 
to leap from his horse at the church door after follow- 
ing a pack of hounds, huddle on his surplice and gabble 
over the service with the most indecent mockery of 
religion. Do I speak with acrimony? I have reason. 
It was he who first taught my lord to drink. Then he 
was a wit — an insufferable wit. His conversation after 
he had drank, was such as no woman but Harriet Freke 
could understand, and such as few gentlemen could hear. 
I have never, alas, been thought a prude, but in the hey- 
day of my youth and gaiety this man always disgusted 
me. In one word, he was a buck parson. ' ' 

Harriet, the heroine in Richardson's Sir Charles 
Grandison, describes a sort of reverent rascal all too 
common in her day: "A vast, tall, big-boned, splay- 
footed man; a shabby gown; as shabby a wig; a huge 
and pimply face; and a nose that hid half of it when 
he looked on one side, and he seldom looked fore-right 
when I saw him. He had a dog-eared Common Prayer- 
book in his hand, which once had been gilt, opened, 
horrid sight ! at the page of matrimony. . . . The 
man snuffled his answers through his nose. When he 
opened his pouched mouth, the tobacco hung about his 
great yellow teeth. He squinted upon me, and took 
my clasped hands, which were buried in his huge hand. ' ' 
Even those who were not positively vicious were often 
indeed like Dr. Bartlett, Sir Charles Grandison's chap- 
lain, cold-blooded, passive beings who, though doing no 
great evil, certainly did no positive good. Parson 
Adams, described in Fielding's Joseph Andrews, a 
preacher who, when the golden rule failed used his fist, 

194 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

and Dr. Primrose, in Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, 
were glaring exceptions in their native kindness of heart, 
self-forgetful simplicity, and energetic Christianity. 

The well-founded scandal heard in both den and draw- 
ing-room, is nothing short of shocking to the refined 
woman of to-day. My Lady Tliis and My Lady That 
gathered at social functions, and, as Pope says, 

At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 

These ladies shrieked such bits of conversation as: 
"The devil! They seem to put her on a course of the 
bitters!" "Why, the devil, did she not make her ap- 
pearance? I suppose the prude was afraid of my de- 
molishing and unrigging her!"^ 

Writers on the subject have pleaded that we must 
not condemn the frankness or coarseness of the day as 
immorality. Men and women of the eighteenth cen- 
tury more often called a spade a spade than we of this 
day. This declaration doubtless contains truth; but 
back of the loud voices, the impolite words, the frequent 
profanity, there were too often hearts burning with 
bestial passions and remembrances and prospects of 
lustful pleasures. It is too evident that wedlock, often 
based upon a financial transaction, was looked upon as 
a very loose bond indeed. It is plain, also, that every 
man, before settling down, had to make his round of 
heavy drinking, gambling, fighting, and adultery. It 
is undeniable that inns hung out signs with the words: 
"Drunk for one penny, dead drunk for two pennies, 
straw for nothing." Harsh laws were created for the 

1 Edgewcrth's Belinda. 

195 



ENGLISH FICTION 

criminal classes, and yet no effort was made to reach the 
causes of the increase in crime. Until 1736 there were 
absolutely no public lights in the London streets. Such 
a condition was a tempting invitation to such rowdies 
as the "dancing masters" who amused themselves by 
pricking people with their swords, the ''tumblers," who 
stood women on their heads and then rolled them down- 
hill in barrels, and the Modocs who ''tupped the lion," 
that is, beat a man's nose flat and then gouged out his 
eyes with their fingers. As death was the penalty for 
almost every crime, the criminal was looked upon as 
a hero, and, in the novels, was frequently described 
with but thinly veiled admiration. The clergy had de- 
serted their high position as examples of righteousness, 
and as a result were ridiculed in the city and humiliated 
in the country. The "Fleet parsons" not only readily 
performed illegal marriages, but kept saloons and tav- 
erns and furnished a free meal, free drinks, and a free 
bed with each marriage. 

George II acquainted his wife with all his disgusting 
love intrigues, giving her minute descriptions of the 
appearance and physique of his victims, and even nam- 
ing prices paid. Is it any wonder that Swift, in his 
Gulliver's Travels, vented his insane rage by heaping 
insults upon all mankind? The complexity of the new 
social life had brought too much and too sudden power 
to the average man ; a too sudden gift of political priv- 
ileges had brought a new corruption among the common 
folk ; the old laws and old religion, sufficient indeed for 
the former simple life, had now been far outgrown. A 
temporary chaos of -vmlgar display, bestiality, riotous 
vice, and universal dishonesty naturally resulted. Says 

196 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

Hervey, in his Memoirs. ''The king and queen looked 
upon human kind as so many commodities in a market, 
which, without favor or affection they considered only 
in the degree they were useful, and paid for them in 
that proportion, Sir Robert Walpole being sworn ap- 
praiser to their majesties at all these sales." 

The Anglo-Saxon race, however, has always pos- 
sessed too much moral stamina to remain long in the 
mire of bestial vice. We find here and there a voice 
raised in protest. "We find, for instance, in Richard- 
son's Correspondence a young lady's protesting against 
Sterne's indecent suggestions in Tristram Shandy: "I 
am horribly out of humor with the present taste which 
makes people ashamed to own they have not read what, 
if fashion did not authorize, they would with more rea- 
son blush to say they had read. Perhaps some polite 
person from London may have forced this piece into 
your hands; but give it not a place in your library; let 
not Tristram Shandy be ranked among the well-chosen 
authors there. It is indeed a little book and little is 
its merit, though great has been the writer's reward. 
Unaccountable wildness, whimsical digressions, comical 
incoherences, uncommon indecencies, all with an air of 
novelty, have catched the reader 's attention and applause 
has flown from one to another till it is almost singular 
to disapprove. . . . But mark my prophecy, . . . 
that this ridiculous compound will be the cau.se of many 
more productions witless and humorless perhaps, but 
indecent and absurd, till the town will be punished for 
undue encouragement by being poisoned with disgust- 
ful nonsense. ' ' 

It was upon this middle class, in or near the larger 
197 



ENGLISH FICTION 

cities, that regeneration had to depend; the aristocracy 
were too basely immoral, the common folk too basely 
ignorant. These middle-class folk of the city, how- 
ever, had to be respected. They were industrious ; they 
were the wealth producers; their demands brought bet- 
ter highways, canals, safety from robbery; they were 
heavy tax-payers. From a financial standpoint they 
compelled regard. Though solemn and stiff and often 
ridiculous in their efforts to appear aristocratic, they 
were at heart religious, and had indeed a profound re- 
gard for propriety. Then, too, back in 1703, there had 
been bom a genius named John "Wesley, and toward the 
middle of the century he and his brother Charles were 
to raise a flame of religion that by its very ardor drove 
sin into hiding, and compelled the hostile churches to 
purify their own temples. Thus the change for the bet- 
ter began. In the later years of the eighteenth century 
the novel still contained vulgarity; vicious characters 
were still portrayed; but such elements were not so 
frequent ; they became more and more incidental, rather 
than essential. 

Some may ask: Why such a polished style in such 
a filthy age? Perhaps the reason lies in the fact that 
the most highly intellectual in this day were longing 
for, seeking and demanding order — order in every de- 
partment of life. Order could not yet be secured in pri- 
vate and public life, but this very desire for rules so 
badly needed in all other activities of the time, showed it- 
self most strongly in that most intellectual field of all — 
the literary. The result was a reign of "classicism." 
Thus it happens that in the eighteenth century we have 
side by side the strangely contradictory traits of a de- 

198 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

graded domestic and civic life and of a literature slav- 
ishly subservient to regulations and conventionalities. 
The highest intellects of the age spoke in poetry, and 
therefore the tendency was most evident in it ; the lesser 
genius expressed itself in prose fiction, and there classi- 
cism is least evident. One trait, the subordination of 
the fancy to the reason, is, however, plain in the fiction, 
and from the days of Defoe, who "lied like truth" 
until near the close of the century, this subordination 
is very evident in all narratives. 

Steadily, also, prose was gaining respect. Indeed, 
the poets in their field did not often reach the same 
high level as Addison and Steele, Gibbon and Burke, 
reached in theirs. The essay largely took the place of 
the poem in influencing the thoughtful classes. Said 
Walpole, in a letter to Sir H. Mann, in 1742. " 'T is 
an age most unpoetical. 'T is even a test of wit to dis- 
like poetry. ... I do not think an author would 
be universally commended for any production in verse 
unless it were an ode to the Secret Committee, with 
rhymes of liberty and property, nation and administra- 
tion." The care bestowed upon prose far surpassed 
that granted in any previous day. Socially and polit- 
ically it paid to be able to write a strong convincing 
style. Tuckerman has summed it up well when he 
says: "Literary success was a passport to the houses 
and the intimacy of the great. "^ 

The eighteenth century was the logical time for the 
transition from the play to the novel. In Shake- 
speare's day comparatively few in either town or 
country could read, and in the metropolis intellectual 

2 Tuckerman: History of English Prose Fiction, p. 136. 

199 



ETilGLISH FICTION 

pleasure vested itself in the theater, and in the rural 
districts expressed itself in the mystery, miracle, and 
morality plays. But now a much larger percentage of 
the people, especially in the cities, could read, and as 
the play had inevitably lost much of its originality and 
freshness, it was but natural for the educated to look to 
the printed page for entertainment. Moreover, the 
novel, as we have seen, had been slowly evolving for 
some years. The ** character" writers of the previous 
century had presented clearly delineated beings; Defoe 
had been making the impossible appear highly probable ; 
Addison and Steele were preparing the way by means 
of charming essays, half fiction in contents and form. 
The novel, therefore, seemingly but not in reality, hurst 
into existence, suddenly reached a great height, and 
then, before the close of the century, almost as suddenly 
declined. Its entire period of flourishing existence 
might be limited to the thirty years between 1740 and 
1770. Gosse, somewhat shortening the period, divides 
it into three sections: ^ (1) the days ol Pamela, Joseph 
Andrews, David Simple, and Jonathan Wild, when 
the tales were interesting, but somewhat crude in the 
telling and the character development; (2) the days of 
Clarissa Harlowe, Roderick Random, Tom Jones, Pere- 
grine Pickle, Amelia, and Sir Charles Grandison, when 
the stories were masterly in both plot and character; 
(3) the days of Tristram Shandy, Rasselas, the Adven- 
tures of a Guinea, the Castle of Otranto, and the Vicar 
of Wakefield, when there seems to have been a lack of 
admirable plots, but some keen, accurate, and charming 
pictures of characters. After these came a period of 
3 Eighteenth-Century Literature, p. 243. 

200 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

decline, and only now and then novels, such as Humph- 
rey Clinker, Evelina, and Caleb Williams rose above the 
general plajie of mediocrity. One fact was clearly set 
forth by the century as a necessary element in all future 
fiction: that true, vivid portrayal and analysis of emo- 
tions must be the basis of all successful narrative. The 
old type of impossible romances was dead. It is true, 
Robert Paltock (1697?-1767?) wrote as late as 1751 a 
tale of the obsolete sort, Peter WilJdns, the story 
of a sailor who found near the South Pole winged 
men and women; but he was a lonely exception, and 
stood so far aside from the general march of progress 
that his book could not attain prolonged success. 

We shall find, also, that eighteenth-century fiction 
readily divides itself into two classes according to sub- 
ject: that of domestic life, such as Clarissa Harlowe or 
Evelina, where a virtuous woman is generally pitted 
against a libertine, and that of the lowly life, such as 
Roderick Random, where the story, generally comic, 
frequently uses virtue as an object of ridicule. Both 
kinds contain bold, broad streaks of immorality. The 
Rev. Mr. Graves, author of the Spiritual Quixote, might 
say in defense : ' ' I am convinced that Don Quixote or 
Gil Bias, Clarissa or Sir Charles Grandison will furnish 
more hints for correcting the follies and regulating the 
morals of young persons, and impress them more forci- 
bly on their minds than volumes of severe precepts, 
seriously delivered, and dogmatically enforced." But 
we of to-day are more likely to agree with a modern 
critic who declares: "Love degenerates into mere an- 
imal passion and almost every woman has to guard her 
chastity — if indeed she cares to guard it at all — against 

201 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the approaches of man a« the sworn enemy of her vir- 
tue. The language of the characters abounds in oatlis 
and gross expressions, and to swear loudly and to drink 
deeply are the common attributes of fashionable as well 
as vulgar life. The heroines allow themselves to take 
part in conversations which no modest woman could 
have heard without a blush." Well might a comedy of 
the middle century, George Coleman's Polly Honey- 
comh, close with the exclamation, "Zounds! ... a 
man might as well turn his daughter loose in Covent 
Garden as trust the cultivation of her mind to a cir- 
culating library." 

"sir ROGER DE COVERLET " 

The importance of the seventeenth-century "char- 
acter" writers in the building of the novel has been 
indicated. It is this very sort of work that makes 
Addison and Steele powerful influences in eighteenth- 
centmy fiction. They undoubtedly made clear the way 
that led to natural, true narrative. The Tatter of 
1709 and the Spectator of 1711 brought conciseness and 
elegance to a prose that had been altogether too slov- 
enly ; but far beyond this in importance was the appear- 
ance of that admirable character, Sir Roger de Coverley, 
and his famous group. Sir Roger is one of the clearest 
and most living figures in all the world's literature, and 
but a bit more of plot would have made him the hero of 
the first great English novel. "We are given glimpses 
of his youth ; we see him in his declining years ; we have 
even a description of his death ; these, placed in a logical 
sequence, would have proved excellent material for 
either fiction or drama. There is even a hint of a love 

202 



FICTION OF TPIE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

plot in the work. That widow cast her bewitching eyes 
upon him and he fell like a great surprised booby; but 
she proved too witty and learned for Sir Roger, and he 
never felt at ease while in her presence. "This bar- 
barity," says he, "has left me ever at a distance from 
the most beautiful ob.ject my eyes ever beheld." 

It is marvelous with how few touches this hardy, 
old-fashioned Englishman is put before us a living, 
thinking, heartful being. He was so human that John- 
son could not grant him whole-souled admiration — a 
sure test of truthfulness in imaginary characterization. 
The wise old Doctor thought his conduct too irregular, 
because of "habitual rusticity and that negligence which 
solitary grandeur naturally generates," and, doubtless 
thinking of the squire's frequent references to the wid- 
ow, declared that he had "flying vapors of incipient 
madness which from time to time cloud reason without 
eclipsing it." The fact is the character was so real that 
Johnson, now divorced from rural humanity, could not 
clearly appreciate it. 

Sir Roger shows his literary ancestors to have been 
those "characters" portrayed by men of morals in the 
previous century. They had shown a man of kindness, 
a man of religions, a man of cheerfulness, and so on, 
but here were the abstractions made living in the flesh, 
and in one flesh at that. It is a far cry from the filthy 
creatures of Mrs. Manley's imagination to the healthy 
cleanliness of this normal man. Addison and Steele 
did indeed endeavor to make morality f a.shionable ; but 
they undertook the work, not like Swift, by exaggerat- 
ing depravity, but by picturing a human being almost 
ideal. Sir Roger has that enviable- power given only 

203 



ENGLISH FICTION 

to the greatest figures in fiction; he is your companion 
for ever more. Here, then, was a hero. Here were in- 
cidents, comments on life, environments described, mo- 
tives analyzed, some clash of wills, even the outlines of 
a love affair. Everything was present for the complete 
novel except the logical sequence of actions. Defoe 
possessed astonishing ability in making events seem 
logical; he could associate incidents with a character 
until they seemed of the very essence of that being. If 
Defoe, with his peculiar genius, could have combined 
with Addison, in the story of this country squire, Eng- 
lish literature would have been enriched with a strong 
novel thirty years before Richardson penned his epoch- 
making Pamela. 

DANIEL DEFOE 

I have said that Defoe possessed an astonishing 
ability to make events seem logical. It was because 
Defoe knew life with an accuracy granted to but few 
men. Swift, too, had this insight into human nature; 
but he preferred to picture only the worst phases. Ad- 
dison knew the world; but he preferred to picture the 
ideal. Defoe surpassed them both in this knowledge, 
and he preferred to picture men as they are. From 
the standpoint of fiction, therefore, he is of greater im- 
portance. Defoe had tried many occupations. He had 
lived in city and country, in England and on the Con- 
tinent. He had seen practically every phase of civil- 
ized existence. Wlien, therefore, at the age of fifty- 
eight, he began that wonderful story of the lone dweller 
on a far-away island, he was as well prepared as mortal 
could be to tell the story of a man. And just there is 

204 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

a reason for his undying fame. He knew what the 
people wanted, because he was one of the people, and he 
placed before them in minute detail one of their own 
number at the common daily tasks of life. He realized 
that all readers love to hear the story of another man's 
life — its struggles, failures, and victories; he could, in- 
deed, have agreed with Carlyle that biography was, 
after all, the most fascinating form of literature. It 
had, therefore, long been his custom whenever a noted 
or notorious character died, to publish immediately a 
''life" of the deceased. Doubtless at first he tried to 
make such narratives true; but, finding that the sur- 
prising paid, he began to invent incidents, and thus 
gradually drifted into fiction. In other words, he be- 
gan by presenting real persons in real scenes, passed 
from that to presenting fictitious persons in real scenes, 
and at length passed into the third stage, that of present- 
ing fictitious persons in fictitious scenes. As Minto * 
says, "From writing biographies with real names at- 
tached to them, it was but a short step to writing biogra- 
phies with fictitious names." When an author does 
that, he comes dangerously near writing a novel. 

Defoe's experience in writing biography had taught 
him the value of exact statement and minute details, 
and it was by means of this very massing of seem- 
ingly unimportant and often trivial details that he con- 
structed a narrative never excelled in convincing real- 
ism. There is about his manner of relating events a 
certain cold-bloodedness which forces upon us an im- 
pression that he is merely an impersonal historian, and 
this is exactly what he wished to be considered.. He de- 

* Life of Defoe, p. 134. 

205 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Glares in his preface to Robinson Crusoe that he believes 
the narrative to be "a just history of fact" and that as 
far as he can see, "there is no appearance of fiction in 
it." He rarely becomes enthusiastic; he takes sides 
with neither friend nor foe; he seems to say, "I give 
you the facts, judge for yourself," and as a result 
his extreme matter-of-factness makes us ashamed not 
to believe. "Whenever, indeed, he uses some brief 
moral reflection on the action of a character, it is done 
in such a way as but to strengthen the idea that he is 
a mere narrator of the scene. Writing, not for fame, 
but for money, Defoe not infrequently presents as the 
real author some person who appears to be far more 
intimately acquainted with the subject than he himself. 
Thus in the Journal of the Plague Year, he assumes 
the character of an honest London shopkeeper; in the 
Memoirs of a Cavalier, the wars are described by a 
5'oung soldier who took part in them. 

Defoe, a born journalist, had a waj" of feeling the 
public pulse, and finding what new sensation the people 
desired, and then he produced the sensation with a 
vengeance. Among a nervous people, such a man's 
power would be dangerous in times of great excitement 
or impending catastrophe. The Journal of the Plague 
Year was published at a time when England was hear- 
ing with terror that the ancient disease had once more 
broken out in France; and Defoe handled the theme 
with such vividness and such merciless precision and 
detail that those who read it could not but have gained 
additional terror. So realistic was this story that for 
many years its authenticity was not doubted, while to 

206 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

this day numerous libraries place the volume in the de- 
partment of history. 

Defoe's masterpiece, Robinson Crusoe (1719) came 
into existence under similar influences. The sailor, Al- 
exander Selkirk, told about in Cooke's Voyage to the 
South Sea (1712) and left on the lonely island of Juan 
Fernandez, had lived there four years and had been 
rescued by the same captain who had placed him there. 
Defoe saw his opportunity. Seizing upon this incident, 
and knowing the possibilities and profit in public curi- 
osity, he wrote the most believable piece of fiction ever 
created. Inspect this masterly work. There is scarcely 
an event of any magnitude in the entire story. An 
Englishman is shipwrecked, and going about the neces- 
sary duties of a lone man, he passes by labor from the 
state of the primitive being who subsists upon the rough 
gifts of Nature, to the state of the civilized man who has 
founded a habitation and a home, and has made Nature 
his servant. It is a symbol of the progress of all hu- 
manity; its truth is not limited to one man or nation; 
its truth is universal. Defoe declared it an allegory 
of his own life and struggles. He had labored alone in 
the great metropolis ; he had become a master, like Cru- 
soe, through sore toil and bitter experience. But its 
allegorical meanings are far more general; Defoe wrote 
more greatly than he knew. 

How does the book possess such power? The story 
goes for a while along the line of the ancient picaresque 
tales, with which the higher classes were becoming dis- 
gusted; after a few harum-scarum adventures, however, 
Crusoe settles down to tame goats and dry raisins. 

207 



ENGLISH FICTION 

How, then, is the fascination produced? It is simply 
that same use of detail found so valuable by Defoe in 
his biographies. The minute descriptions make this 
deserted being live before us; we sympathize with him 
in his toil; and every little incident in his day's work 
becomes a matter of intense interest to us. Those trips 
on his raft from the shore to the shipwreck are adven- 
tures of breathless suspense; the capture of his goats 
and the gathering of his grapes are of gratifying im- 
portance to US; his building of a wall is a matter of 
grave concern; and that footprint on the sand — our 
hearts leap with terror as we hear of it! Only concen- 
trated attention could make possible such a result. 
Defoe, therefore, wastes no energy on complexity of 
plot; its simplicity leaves him every mental power to 
be expended in making the one being live an absolutely 
convincing existence. 

There is vivid character portrayal here, but prac- 
tically no character development. So far as the story 
gives information, Robinson Crusoe is about the same 
man, except for a little more wisdom, when he leaves 
the island, as when he came. But then what a charming 
fellow he is! In our interest in his deeds most of us 
neglect to notice what a lovable man this lonely hero is 
shown to be. He is seemingly just a commonplace fel- 
low, with a good deal of practical information; but it 
is the glorification of the commonplace that Defoe in- 
tends. He taught the English people, through their 
fellow-Englishman Crusoe, that patience, industry, 
steadiness were essentials of success, and that contented 
plodding in the station granted by Providence might 
produce astonishing results. It is the voice of the fru- 

208 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

gal and hard-working English middle class speaking 
through his book; and with this popular expression of 
their ideals were the additional charms of the travel 
book, the book of customs, the book of biography. 
Small wonder that the work has sold its millions of 
copies ; small wonder that it bids fair to live until the 
end of time. 

A writer who could make so vivid the common, daily 
rounds of an exiled man's life would have no difficulty 
in picturing the daily life of the individuals he saw 
hourly in the streets of London. Defoe followed his 
great success with such books as 3Ioll Flanders, the tale 
of a female rogue, Colonel Jack, the story of a street 
urchin's degeneration and regeneration, Captain Single- 
ton, the story of a man of adventures, and various other 
volumes of fictitious biography. These, too, possess in- 
terest. The scenes in 3Ioll Flanders teem with rogues 
and thieves ; ' ' Captain Singleton 's tour across Africa is 
as good reading as Stanley, and, to the uninitiated, it 
seems quite as true to fact."® All are exceptional 
studies in sociology, and are of no small value to any 
student of the growth of civilization. But as fiction, 
they do not equal RoUnson Crusoe. The events in the 
lives of all these figures are not closely and logically 
connected; but Crusoe's day evolves from the previous 
day; the work of this moment is the result of yester- 
day's experience. 

It has been claimed that Defoe, like Richardson, 
wrote for moral purposes. It is exceedingly doubtful. 
Most of his work is modeled on the rogue story; he de- 
scribes the most depraved conditions — without enthusi- 

6 Cross : Development of the English Novel, p. 29, 
14 209 



ENGLISH FICTION 

asm, it is true, but also without sparing refined nerves. 
Moll Flanders is a wretch devoid of conscience, and 
Defoe tells about her affairs in a manner that shows 
some lack of conscience in himself. Boxana is in part 
downright corrupt. Portions of the Journal of the 
Plague Year and Colonel Jack are about as bad. And 
yet Defoe himself declares that from such works "just 
and religious inference is drawn." Only in Crusoe 
does he rise to a moral level far above his age. 

In what things does his masterpiece lack the complete 
nature of a novel? It has plot; it has numerous inter- 
esting deeds and a fascinating hero; but it lacks the 
clash of human wills. Man's spiritual evolution is not 
emphasized; man's conflict with the world of other men 
does not enter. The great theme of man's love for 
woman is absent. It is a "memoir," an "imagined 
biography" of one man; it does not show the psycho- 
logical effect of those soul crises that come into every 
man's life. It is more truly a tale of man's physical 
progress than of his spiritual evolution. As the story 
of an individual, however, it is a masterpiece. 

JONATHAN SWIFT 

Fifteen years before the appearance of Robinson Cru- 
soe that human viper, Jonathan Swift, had chosen to 
display his satirical powers in two narratives, the Tale 
of a Tub and the Battle of the Books; after about a 
quarter of a century spent in lashing men and their 
follies with his deadly invectives, he heaped up his 
contempt, scorn, disgust, and insult for all humanity in 
his Gulliver's Travels (1726). He assumed contempt 
for Defoe, whose masterpiece had appeared seven years 

210 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

earlier, and purposely spoke of liiui as "that fellow 
What 's His Name"; and yet, in the forms of the two 
writers' chief books there is considerable similarity. 
Both appealed to the travel instinct in the popular 
reader; both told the story of one man's experiences; 
both used the love theme but sparingly or not at all; 
both relied upon superabundant details for realism; 
both showed little or none of the soul growth that we 
expect in the novel of to-day ; both showed a surprising 
knowledge of the universal traits in man. 

Swift was a bundle of contradictions. Good-hearted 
in many ways, possessing genuine sympathy for the op- 
pressed, generous with his small means, appreciative of 
the best in literature, he was, nevertheless, a poisonous 
misanthrope rankling with proud rage. His education 
had been furnished through the charity of relatives, 
and he hated them for it, Working for "William Tem- 
ple, who was in most things considerate enough, he al- 
lowed his soul to become embittered with the idea of 
servitude. He took no part in the vices of the day, and 
preferred the company of refined people ; yet, in his 
writings he found joy in inserting filth and depravity. 
He would have fought to the last ditch for a friend; 
but he declared he had only forty-four in all the world, 
and trusted only seventeen of these. A man of gener- 
ous impulses, he was born in an evil age, and the 
hypocrisy, cruelty, and unshamed vice of his times 
soured his soul. His early Tale of a Tub, a satire 
dealing with English, Non-conformist, and Catholic 
Churches (Martin, Jack, and Peter) was a prophecy 
of what his future work was to be ; for in this he found 
very evident pleasure in lambasting the theories, dis- 

211 



ENGLISH FICTION 

tinetions, and follies of the various creeds of England. 
This tirade showed what he could do if given a theme 
that moved his soul to its depths. That theme appeared 
in time as the whole genus mankind. Literary ambi- 
tion had no pai*t in that huge insult to humanity; it 
was w'ritten to relieve his overcharged heart. The 
first publisher stated that he found The Travels of Lem- 
uel Gulliver left at his door in the darkness of the 
night, and for some time he could not discover its au- 
thor. And yet, the genius and art displayed in it might 
have been a source of pride to any master of literature. 
Its success was immediate and tremendous; everybody 
wanted it; the price of the first edition was raised be- 
fore the second was issued, but the sale continued un- 
abated. Readers who cared little for politics read it 
for its story; others who understood its satirical import 
read it with additional pleasure ; some who perceived in 
it mockery of their own rank, creed, or folly, WTithed 
under it. 

As Swift progressed in this work, he gained poison 
in his invective and sweep in his vision. Many inter- 
pretations of the various portions have been offered, 
but we might read into them the following meanings: 
in the first book, dealing with the land of Lilliput, we 
see how small we might look in the eyes of the Great 
Euler; the second shows how small we ourselves should 
feel if brought into His presence ; the third, describing 
the floating island inhabited by learned cranks, displays 
the presumption and vanity of petty human intellect; 
while the last heaps insult upon man universal by de- 
scribing a land where horses and asses are the masters 
and man a despised beast of burden. ''Vanity, vanity, 

212 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

all is vanity," — this is the text of Swift's stormy rav- 
ings, and in his anger he pummels pride wherever he 
thinks he discovers it. 

The mercilessness of the satire in the first three parts 
and the brutality of the descriptions in the last portion 
are almost incredible. After his visit to the land of the 
Yahoos, where he has seen man scorned by the horse 
and the ass, the very sight of humanity is nauseating. 
"I am not in the least provoked at the sight of a law- 
yer, a pickpocket, a colonel, a fool, a lord, a gamester, 
a politician, a physician, an evidence, ... an at- 
torney, a traitor, or the like; this is all according to 
the due course of things ; but when I behold a lump of 
deformity and diseases, both in body and mind, smitten 
with pride, it immediately breaks all the measures of 
my patience ; neither shall I ever be able to comprehend 
how such an animal, and such a vice, could tally to- 
gether," Again: "My wife and family received me 
with great surprise and joy, because they had con- 
cluded me certainly dead; but I must freely confess 
the sight of them filled me only with hatred, disgust, 
and contempt; and the more by reflecting on the near 
alliance I had to them. ... As soon as I entered 
the house my wife took me in her arms and kissed me ; 
at which, having not been used to the touch of that 
odious animal for so many years, I fell into a swoon 
for almost an hour. At the time I am writing, it is five 
years since my last return to England : during the first 
year I could not endure my wife or children in my 
presence; the very smell of them was intolerable, much 
less could I suffer them to eat in the same room. ' ' 

In Lilliput Laud we see our petty political and re- 
213 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ligious schemes through the wrong end of the telescope. 
The bitterness of the Catholics and the Protestants, as 
shown by the ''Big-endians" and the " Small-endians, " 
and the strivings of the Tories and Whigs as the ' ' High- 
Heels" and the "Low-Heels," are among the keenest 
pieces of ridicule in all the world's literature. In the 
Land of Brobdingnag we see our sins and follies through 
the right end of the telescope, and whether w^e take the 
giants to be ourselves magnified, or as creatures of 
larger mold and character looking down upon our 
shriveled figures and souls, the sarcasm never relaxes. 
When Gulliver described England to the king of these 
giants, that monarch was moved to exclaim: "It was 
only a heap of conspiracies, rebellions, murders, massa- 
cres, revolutions, banishments, the very worst effects 
that avarice, faction, hypocrisy, perfidiousness, cruelty, 
rage, madness, hatred, envy, lust, malice, and ambition 
could produce. . . . My little friend, Grildrig, you 
have made a most admirable panegj^ric upon your coun- 
try; you have clearly proved that ignorance, idleness 
and vice are the proper ingredients for qualifying leg- 
islators ; that laws are best explained, interpreted, and 
supplied by those whose interests and abilities lie in 
perverting, confounding and eluding them. ... I 
can not but conclude the bulk of your natives to be the 
most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature 
ever suffered to crawl upon the surface of the earth." 
Lest the educated should think themselves free from 
the feebleness of mankind. Swift devotes that clever 
third book to them. In the Island of Laputa, we come 
upon philosophers extracting sunbeams from cucum- 
bers, softening marble for pillows and pincushions, and 

214 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

undertaking other unnecessary and profitless, but 
highly "scientific" tasks. And it may be noted here 
that such schemes were no worse than some actually ad- 
vertised in Swift's own time. An enterprise was in- 
deed advertised to "import jackasses from Spain" — as 
though England had not enough of its own. Only in 
our journey to the land of Houyhnhnm do we find the 
satire overreaching itself. This can not be a true 
picture of mankind; the spite is too evident. We are 
now reading the ravings of a depraved and almost 
maddened intellect. The disgusting lowness of the 
human beings in this land might apply to certain indi- 
viduals of the eighteenth century; but man as a whole 
has never sunk so deep, and never will sink to such a 
plane. It is the perception of only the beast in hu- 
manity. 

As has been pointed out, Swift was happy in his 
choice of form for this satire. The old travel story, 
so familiar to English readers, allowed a free use of 
marvels, monsters, and detailed, circumstantial state- 
ments of scenes not to be contradicted by an ignorant 
stay-at-home public. Then, too, Swift's apparent ac- 
curacy makes the whole affair seem real. He tells us 
just when he sailed; he states just where he was 
wrecked; each proportion in either dwarf land or giant 
land is seemingly a true one. Only in the Land of 
Houyhnhnms do we perceive the impossible. Horses 
are not physically constructed to build, eat, and live as 
there described. 

Addison and Steele had impressed the importance of 
character portrayal in fiction; Defoe had shown, the 
strength of a realistic series of events centered about 

215 



ENGLISH FICTION 

one individual; Swift had done the same thing, had 
added wit and humor, and had pointed out the power 
of fiction in dealing with the follies, affectations, and 
vices of mankind. Another step, and the novel, as we 
understand it to-day, would be created. 

ELIZA HAYWOOD 

That step was almost taken by a woman, Mrs. Eliza 
Haywood (d. 1756), a disciple of Mrs. Manley, of the 
previous century, and a forerunner of Frances Burney, 
whose Evelina was a source of inspiration to Jane Aus- 
ten. Pope gave the woman lasting fame in his Dun- 
dad: 

See in the circle next Eliza placed, 

Two babes of love close clinging to her waist; 

Fair as before her works she stands confessed, 

In flowers and pearls by bounteous Kirkall dressed. 

As a follower of Mrs, Manley and Mrs. Behn she is 
not at all squeamish about moral filth; but she under- 
stands to some degree what Defoe and Swift seemed not 
to comprehend, the psychology of love, and, though 
the love described is often little more than beastly pas- 
sion, she makes some use of its effects and its ability to 
create a clash of wills in such works as her British Re- 
cluse (1722), Idalia (1723), Memoirs of a Certain Is- 
land Adjacent to Utopia (1725), Secret Intrigues of the 
Count of Caramania (1727), and a host of other stories 
of less scope, such as Love in Excess, The Injured Hus- 
band, and the Fortunate Foundling. 

It was not, however, until 1751, after Eichardson had 
written two books fulfilling our conception of a true 

216 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

novel, and Fielding had created one of the world's mas- 
terpieces in fiction, that Mrs. Haywood gained her first 
real triumph in literature. 3Iiss Betsy Thoughtless is 
the first domestic novel in the English language, the first 
to find its field in home life, the first to point out the 
themes which Jane Austen afterwards handled in such 
a masterly manner. Many portions of this story are 
decidedly clever. Betsy Thoughtless, because of her 
scatter-brain nature, is constantly falling into troubles. 
She is flattered by numerous lovers, but loses the only 
one she cares for, Mr. Trueworth, because of her impa- 
tience and imprudence. An orphan at fifteen, she goes 
to London and lives in the home of her guardian, Mr. 
Goodman, a wealthy merchant who has married a hypo- 
critical young widow. The widow's daughter. Flora, is 
caught in an intrigue by Betsy, who peeps through a 
crack in the bedroom wall, and thus gains her first 
lesson in vice. She now meets her former schoolmate. 
Miss Forward, who has lost her virtue, and by associa- 
tion with this woman, Betsy loses all of Trueworth 's re- 
gard. Flora, indeed, has written anonymous letters to 
him about her, and he, in disgust, marries another 
woman. Mrs. Goodman has an intrigue with a former 
lover, Marplus, who has her bond for large amounts. 
At length her husband, responsible for his wife's con- 
tracts, is arrested for this debt, and dies from the shock 
and the disgrace. Betsy has meanwhile moved to 
private lodgings, and there meets a valet who assumes 
to be a knight, and with him she goes through a sham 
marriage. From this predicament she is rescued by 
Trueworth. She now marries, and her husband proves 
a rascal ; but this discipline makes her a woman of self- 

217 



ENGLISH FICTION 

control and quiet manner. She is now persecuted with 
the libertine advances of a nobleman; she leaves home 
because of her husband's intri^es with a French 
woman. Now tlie husband falls sick, and she faith- 
fully nurses him until his death. Then Trueworth's 
wife very kindly dies, and of course the natural thing 
happens. 

" 'Oh! have I lived to see you thus,' cried he, 'thus 
ravishingly kind!' 'And have I lived,' rejoined she, 
'to receive these proofs of affection from the best and 
most ill used of men? Oh! Trueworth! Trueworth!' 
added she, 'I have not merited this from you.' 'You 
merit all things,' said he; 'let us talk no more of what 
is past, but tell me that you now are mine; I came to 
make you so by the irrevocable ties of love and law, 
and we must now part no more ! Speak, my angel, 
my first, my last charmer ! ' continued he perceiving she 
was silent, blushed, and hung down her head. 'Let 
those dear lips confirm my happiness and say the time 
is come, that you will be all mine. ' . . . ' You know 
you have my heart,' cried she, 'and cannot doubt my 
hand.' " 

Here is an excellent plot; here, too, are characters 
decidedly real, but the same low view of love so evident 
in the previous century, is once more portrayed; men 
and women have no spiritual relations; every woman 
too easily falls a victim to temptation; every man is 
represented as at all times on the verge of the beastly. 
There is, however, one redeeming trait: the scoundrels 
lose the game and the virtuous win it. There is much 
nonsense, much hypocrisy, much downright vice; but 
still it marks some healthful tendencies in the eight- 

218 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

eentli century. For example, we find this commentary 
on duelling: "Mr. True worth could not help joining 
with the ladies in condemning the folly of that custom 
which, contrary to the known laws of the land, and 
oftentimes contrary to his own reason, too, obliges the 
gentleman either to obey the call of the person who 
challenges him to the field, or, by refusing, submit him- 
self, not only to all the insults his adversary is pleased 
to treat him with, but also be branded with the infamous 
character of a coward by all that know him," 

This, then, is a full-fledged novel ; but remember that 
it came eleven years after Richardson had shown the 
English people the true scope and significance of the 
new type of literature. Mrs. Haywood was but one of 
the many who learned their art from the fat, bashful, 
tea-drinking, effeminate publisher of London. 

SAMUEL RICHARDSON 

**0h, Richardson!" cries Diderot, **thou shalt rest 
in the same class with Moses, Homer, Euripides and 
Sophocles, to be read alternately." Never, perhaps, in 
all literary history, has another man sprung into such 
immediate and high fame as had this London book- 
seller. Never before had a writer been so lionized, so 
deluged with tearful letters, so praised, so worshiped 
by sentimental women, and so sneered at by men of 
coarser fiber. 

Born in Derbyshire in 1689, he was as a child ab- 
normally prudent and unnaturally good. His school- 
mates called him Mr. Gravity, but liked him for his 
stories; as an apprentice, he bought his own candles in 
order that his master might not suffer loss by his night 

219 



ENGLISH FICTION 

study; at the age of ten he wrote a long letter to a 
widow of fifty rebuking her for her frivolity. A sort 
of English Ben Franklin, he possessed, however, far 
more sentimentality. A man who preferred the society 
of women, he possessed a masculine business ability, and 
by his fiftieth year he was one of the most important prin- 
ters in England, and Master of the Stationers' Company. 
Undoubtedly a virtuous soul, he nevertheless lacked the 
iron strength of such a man as Scott or of such a woman 
as George Eliot. 

It was in 1739 that the publishers, Rivington and 
Osborne, urged this seemingly commonplace, uninspired, 
retiring gentleman to write "a book of familiar letters 
on the useful concerns of common life." In his busi- 
ness-like way Richardson at once went to work at the 
task and had composed several of the letters when the 
idea occurred to him to put a plot into the collection 
— "not the pomp and parade of romance writing," but 
something that might tend to promote the cause of re- 
ligion and virtue. Choosing a story he had once heard 
of the marriage of a common girl to a nobleman, he 
brought forth in 1740 the first English novel complete 
in every essential — Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. What 
a furor it raised! Here was something new under the 
sun. Young, the author of the Night Thoughts, called 
him an instrument of Providence ; preachers praised him 
from the pulpit; ladies hid themselves in the parks to 
get a glimpse of him. It is said on the authority of 
Sir John Herschel that when a blacksmith read the 
book to the village neighbors collected in his shop, and 
they found at the close that Pamela had married her 
master, they shouted in their happiness, forced the sex- 

220 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

ton to open the church door, and rang the bell for 
joy. 

What is the substance of the work that could so affect 
the high and the low of several nations? The gist of 
the whole plot is simply this: Pamela, a servant girl, 
is tempted, threatened, and mistreated by her young 
master, whose mother, on her death-bed, had commended 
Pamela to his services; but the young girl, through all 
the harassing circumstances, retains her virtue, and at 
length, seeing the opportunity for a splendid match, 
"angles" with the young squire, as Gosse puts it, and 
"lands him at last, like an exhausted salmon." All this 
is in the form of letters to and from her parents, with 
every detail of the incidents, every phase of the emo- 
tions, every thought, fear, and hope of the heroine re- 
corded and analyzed. To many modern readers this 
leisurely business might be little short of maddening, 
but Samuel Johnson's reply to Erskine on this very- 
subject may well be offered in defense: ""Why, sir, 
if you were to read Richardson for the story, your im- 
patience would be so much fretted that you would hang 
yourself; but you must read him for the sentiment, 
and consider the story as only giving occasion to the 
sentiment. ' ' 

Doubtless Richardson thought he was writing an ex- 
ceedingly moral book. He declared that it could be 
read "without raising a single idea throughout the whole 
that shall shock the exactest purity." And yet, to the 
reader of our time, many portions of the novel seem 
dangerously suggestive. Pamela's endeavors in the ear- 
lier chapters are strictly defensive ; but when she be- 
gins to "fish" for the passionate young squire, schem- 

221 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ing prudence takes the place of a genuine regard for 
virtue, and she no longer holds our sjTnpathy. Then, 
too, the unbridled passion of her lover might indeed 
shock the exaetest purity, and yet, this rascal gets all 
the sweets and not the least punishment. But readers 
of the eighteenth century could scarcely be made any 
worse, and doubtless could be made better by the pe- 
rusal of such a story. The dangers Pamela experienced 
would not have been surprising to her contemporaries, 
while her steady resistance not onlj^ may have been sur- 
prising, but may have aroused the quite unusual ambi- 
tion to live a similar life of virtue. 

In spite of these moral defects, the book sounds de- 
cidedly natural. Pamela's letters especially possess this 
quality. Truly the story is without "the pomp and 
parade of romance writing," but is something far better 
— a picture from real life. Long years of observation 
of woman's nature had made Richardson master of its 
secret workings. As a mere boy he had written many 
a love-letter for the village girls; as a man he had 
many women associates. They gathered at his home and 
called him "papa." He knew, therefore, exactly what 
sentiments were strongest in them, what emotions pro- 
duced other emotions. He made the analysis of the soul 
no longer a matter of guess work, but a scientific method 
based on close personal investigation. 

In 17-il Richardson published in two volumes a sequel 
to Pamela, in which the wife is shown in sorrow be- 
cause of the squire's infidelity. This, however, seems 
not to have attracted a wide notice, and seven years 
passed before his second triumph appeared. Claf'issa 
Harlowe, issued in seven volumes in 1748, is a master- 

222 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

piece. Alfred de MiLSset declares it the best novel in 
the world. Fielding's sister wrote: "I am over- 
whelmed; my only vent is tears." CoUey Gibber, when 
he heard that the \allain would bring Clarissa to die 
miserably, wrote Richardson: "God damn him if she 
should!" Such expressions but prove that the heroine 
is a li\ang personage. Here, indeed, is the modern 
subtle analysis of the heart. Psychology, not mere in- 
cident, is the source of interest; not the deed, but the 
motive back of the deed and the resulting relationship 
with the next deed, the temptations and defenses of 
human nature, the failures and the remorse, the sus- 
taining power of ideals, the conflict of the two influ- 
ences, the animal and the spiritual, forever striving in 
each indi\idual — these are elements that make the char- 
acters of Clarissa Harloive living beings and give 
them the power to do that which few early fictitious 
personages could do — the power to arouse us to pity, 
hatred, disgust, sympathy, a multitude of varied emo- 
tions. The beings here portrayed become our ac- 
quaintances, as real as those about us, and we are con- 
strained to agree with Diderot when he says: "At the 
close of the work I seemed to remain deserted." 

In this story, instead of conquering and winning the 
passionate lover, the heroine becomes a martyr to the 
man's licentiousness. By the aid of the villain, Love- 
lace, Clarissa runs away from her tjTannical parents, 
and after being vainly tempted by this lover, she is 
taken to a low haunt, drugged, and debauched. Love- 
lace, now touched by some remorse, offers to marrj" her ; 
but she refuses and dies, partly from the result of her 
rough treatment, but more from shame and anguish. 

223 



ENGLISH FICTION 

There is a certain iuevitableness about this work never 
before seen in English literature outside the drama. 
The ending is bitter and cruel ; but it is the one ending, 
•the necessary outcome of a group of fatally associated 
events. Prolix the book may be — in early editions Clar- 
issa's "will covers nineteen closely printed pages — but 
the dramatic atmosphere and the pathos resulting from 
a masterly picture of a clash of wills and the unde- 
serv^ed defeat of one of these wills, cause us to forgive 
the length. The ending seems merciless; but, then, 
many catastrophies in real life are apparently so. Our 
sense of justice is somewhat satisfied by Lovelace's death 
in a duel resulting from the crime; but every reader 
must feel that here wickedness crushes the innocent. 
"We can not wonder that a lady wrote Richardson that 
if Clarissa came to a bad end, "may the hatred of all 
the young, beautiful and virtuous forever be your por- 
tion! And may your eyes never behold anything but 
age and deformity ! Llay you meet with applause only 
from envious old maids, surly bachelors and tyrannical 
parents ! May you be doomed to the company of such, 
and after death may their ugly souls haunt you!" 

Thus, in his second plot, closely woven and centering 
always about the heroine, this first master of the novel 
created a work to some extent rivaling the Othello of 
the great master of the drama in the subtlety of its 
villainy, the gradual weakening of the will-power, and 
a certain high fatalism. The book was quickly translated 
into the French, German, and Dutch; its influence is 
discernible in almost every modern literatui*e of western 
Europe. 

In a letter of 1756 Richardson wrote: "I am teased 
224 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

by a dozen ladies of note and virtue to give them a good 
man, as they say I have been partial to their sex and 
unkind to my own." His next attempt in fiction, there- 
fore, was to picture an ideal gentleman, and the result 
was that cad. Sir Charles GrandLson. This monster of 
gentility made his graceful and highly polite bow to 
the public in 1754, some time after both Fielding and 
Smollett had shown England some very real but not 
exactly ideal heroes. Sir Charles "acts uniformly well 
through a variety of trying scenes because all his ac- 
tions are regulated by one steady principle"; his 
"damnable iteration" of polite goodness is one of the 
most exasperating traits (to a man reader) in all litera- 
ture. Tuckerman sums it up well when he says: 
"He can afford to be generous because he is rich; he 
can afford to decline a duel because his reputation for 
skill in swordsmanship is so well established that he 
runs no danger of being called a coward ; he is free 
from licentiousness because his passions are under per- 
fect control. "« 

Again the ladies waxed enthusiastic. The book had 
an enormous sale; unmarried women looked about for 
young Grandisons ; the married wondered why their 
husbands were not more like this insipid being. So far 
as we may gather from the writings of the day, we 
judge that the hero was rather amusing to male readers 
of the period. Perhaps, also, he was a source of some 
curiasity — ^he was so utterly different from the actual 
gentleman of the day that he must have been exceed- 
ingly interesting, just as some newly discovered animal 
would now be. Note but this specimen from the work: 

* History of English Prose Fiction, p. 197. 
15 225 



ENGLISH FICTION 

*'He me: Ht. and taking my not-withdrawn hand and 
peering in my face, *Merey,* said he, *the same kind 
a^eet '~= ?rjr:f ?weet and obliging countenance! How 
t2_-- 7 Z .:: von must be gracious I tou wUU Say 



yoa wiiL 

** *Yoa. mnst not urge me. Sir Rowland. You will 
give me pain if you lay me under the necessity to re- 
peat—' 

" *Bepeat what ! Don "t say a refusal Dear madam, 
dont Sly a Tcfosal! WiU you not save a life? Why, 
m ^tbnn^ my poor boy is abBofartely and hona fide broken- 
heazted. I would have had him come with me: but 
so, he eould not bear to leave the beloved of his soul ! 
. . . Gome, e(Hne, be graeioiB! be merciful Dear 
ladi^, be as good as you loc^ to be. One word of com- 
frart for my poor boy : I could kneel to you for one word 
of eomfort — nay, I tcQl kneel' ; — taking hold of my other 
L " - still hdd one ; and down on his knees dropped 
:L : knighf 

Grandison has what Di^ens calls ''a dean-era vated 
fmnality of manner and a kiteben-pokemess of car- 
riage.'' Cle-arly. Hichardstm, who knew T^gHsh middle 
life so welL knew almost nothing of aristocratic circles. 
How ridifioloDS is flie proposal of Sir Charles ! 

"In a ■nnfliiiig tender and resx>eetful manner he 
put his ami aronnd me, and taking ' my own handker- 
ehief imresirted wiped away the tears as they fell on 
my dhe^L 'Sweet humanity! charming sensibility! 
Cliecic not Hie kindly gush. Dew-drops of Heaven! 
(wiping away my tears, and ViRKing the handkerchief) 
^w-drcfpR of Heaven, from a mind like that Heaven, 
mild audi 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTTEY 

"He kissed my hand with feirour; dr-pped down 
on one knee: again kissed it. *Yoti have laid me, 
madam, under everlasting obligations ; and will von per- 
mit me before I rise, loveliest of women, will von permit 
me to beg an earlv dav ? ' 

"He clasped me in his arms with an ardour r'n^t dis- 
pleased me notj on reflection: bnt at the time startled 
me. He then thanked me again on one knee. I held 
ont the hand he had not in his with intent to raise him; 
for I conld not speak. He received it as a token of fa- 
vour, kissed it with ardour; arose, again pressed my 
cheek with his lips." 

Yet the book has some great pages. Lady Clemen- 
tina "s madness over Sir Charles is a vivid and touching 
episode, while the mock marriage of the future wife 
of Sir Charles is a powerful scene, entirely worthy of 
Scott or Dickens. Say what we may against the hero 
himself, we are compelled to admire the subtle analysis 
found here as in the other volumes by Richardson. In- 
deed, this appreciation of the moods of the human soul 
is so keen and so unabating that the reading of this 
author's three books is rather wearing on the nerves^ 
They are long, and they demand and obtain the closest 
attention to details. Every little emotion is stressed; 
its influence may turn out to be the great motive of 
the main deed in the book. It is the sort of work which 
Jane Austen could do. but which was beyond Scott; 
the kind which Hawthorne mastered, but which was be- 
yond the ability of Cooper. The way in which Rich- 
ardson expresses himself does not seem extraordinary; 
perhaps its chief excellence is that it calls no atten- 
tion to itself. In his first novel, at least, he lacks the 

227 



ENGLISH FICTION 

sense of proportion; he is almost devoid of humor, he 
is leisurely to exasperation. But the power is there, 
nevertheless, and its source lies in an intimate knowl- 
edge of the moods, sentiments, and motives that move 
mankind, and in the ability to apply these in a real- 
istic and logical manner to a group of vividly portrayed 
beings. 

His contributions to the progress of English fiction 
are, therefore, very clear. He brought to it not only 
real life, but contemporary life; he emphasized states 
of mind rather than deeds; he greatly advanced the 
use of conversation as a means of delineating character ; 
he pointed out the value of details; of all writers of 
fiction up to his time he made the most fruitful use of 
analysis of emotions. "What is perhaps of more im- 
portance, he inspired the man who was long considered 
the fii"st genuine master of fiction — Henry Fielding. 

HENKT FIELDING 

Henry Fielding (1707-1754) lawyer, dramatist, novel- 
ist, zealous officer, and prince of good fellows in his 
day, was born in Somersetshire, was educated at Eton 
and Leyden, and was in London by his twenty-first year 
trying to make a living by his pen or by any other 
means that came handy. An enormous fellow with a 
fine set of nerves, he possessed an immense capacity 
for enjoyment, and whether his satires or plays suc- 
ceeded, or whether not a penny jingled in his pocket, 
he secured about all the pleasure that any one moment 
could produce. In all, he wrote twenty-eight plays, 
some of which — such as Tom Tlium'b the Great (1730), 
and the Historical Register (1737) — had considerable 

228 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

success. Fielding was, however, a man who had no 
prudence in financial matters, and, his constant lack 
of money driving him into a renewed effort to learn 
law, he was admitted to the bar in that momentous 
year of his life, 1740. This was the very year in which 
Richardson's Pamela set the ladies to weeping, and 
some of the gentlemen to laughing. Fielding was one 
of those who laughed. The whole thing seemed to him 
so ridiculous that he at once determined to "v\Tite a bur- 
leque on the story. 

Joseph Andreivs appeared in 17'42. Choosing Joseph, 
the brother of Pamela as the hero, Fielding has him 
tempted by a passionate widow, just as Pamela was 
tempted by the young squire. Invitingly ridiculous as 
this idea was. Fielding soon became so interested in 
his young hero, and in the strongly human soul. Parson 
Adams, that after the first five chapters he almost de- 
serted the idea of burlesque, and wrought a piece of 
work rarely excelled in its firm grip upon the traits 
of human nature and in its sharp delineation of char- 
acters. Fielding declares that he took Cervantes as 
his model; but Don Quixote is a book of types, while 
this is a collection of distinctly individualized beings. 
The plot perhaps is not in all points admirable. It 
seems to consist of a series of parallel events or subplots, 
rather hastily brought to some semblance of union near 
the close of the book; but nevertheless the business 
moves right on, and whatever interruptions exist are 
so excellent that we gladly forgive them for temporarily 
stopping the current. It is splendid masculine comedy, 
and breathes a freedom and breadth unknown to Rich- 
ardson's hothouse productions. 

229 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The difference between the two men's experiences 
and view-points is at once recognized. Richardson was 
acquainted with women and a world of feminine emo- 
tions ; Fielding with men and a world of masculine ac- 
tivities. Moreover, Fielding knew the dramatic in life ; 
he had been a successful play- writer ; he had what Rich- 
ardson hardlj' possessed in any degree — a sense of hu- 
mor ; he saw the follies of men, but unlike Richardson he 
seems to have had no desire to set up a rigid code for 
other people's morals. He was charitable enough to 
forgive some of the petty sins that Richardson con- 
sidered signs of dangerous depravity. Richardson knew 
thoroughly the middle class only; Fielding knew all 
classes. Lady Mary INIontagu was his cousin; his sec- 
ond wife was a woman from the lower ranks, his chil- 
dren's nurse. He was born of a well-to-do aristocratic 
family, but he drank and quarreled with thugs of the 
sponging house. As an officer of the law he looked 
into dens of ^'ice, courts, prisons, a multitude of places. 
He possessed, therefore, a breadth of vision utterly im- 
possible to Richardson. The little fat book-printer, 
moreover, was never in the best of health, and often 
complained of his nerves; Fielding was a healthy ani- 
mal, and never knew he had nerves until near the day of 
his death. The result is that his books are full of 
healthy animal activity. Coarse he undoubtedly is ; but 
remember he is describing his own day, and, describing 
real life, just as Charles Dickens did for the nineteenth 
century, he could not paint the ugly beautiful. "We 
should bear in mind also that it is not frankness, but 
suggestiveness that is dangerous. The sight of an ab- 
solutely nude figure might be disgusting; one draped 

230 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

in gauze might rouse all the latent beast in an observer. 
In the long run the essentially good wins here, just as 
surely as in Richardson's work; but the "sissy" stands 
no chance. Parson Adams and Tom Jones are at heart 
good men, but decidedly bad fellows in a fight. They 
would have suffocated in Richardson's novels. 

When, therefore, Joseph Andrews appeared, the more 
discriminating readers of the day at once realized that 
here was a book closer to the truth of human nature 
and life in general than the experiences and emotions 
of Pamela, who had caused so many tears two or three 
years earlier. Joseph Andrews is of course supposed 
to be the hero; but, beside the huge figure of the plain- 
spoken and big-fisted Parson Adams, he is dwarfed and 
overshadowed. The parson is one of the immortal 
figures of fiction. In his lovable eccentricities, his 
forgetfulness, his independence, his fearlessness, his thor- 
ough contempt for hypocrisj', his mercifulness, his un- 
bounded generosity, and his blunt common sense, he is 
human from head to foot, and must be given a place 
in the first rank of vividly delineated figures in the 
world of fiction. Joseph Andrews is as sentimental and 
ridiculous as his sister Pamela, and Richardson evermore 
hated Fielding for the picture. ^Mrs. Slipslop, the pig- 
gish Parson Trulliber, and some of the other personages 
seem almost caricatures, instead of characters ; but they 
give us a view of the sordid conditions of the eighteenth 
century just as credible as that presented by Richard- 
son. 

Fortune was now smiling upon the burly author. In 
1743, while the wave of popularity was still high, he 
collected three volumes of his miscellaneous writings, 

231 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and here we find some pieces now unjustly neglected, 
but in their day the source of wide-spread entertain- 
ment. The second volume contains the now laughable, 
now bitter Jounicij from this World to the Next, one 
of the most ludicrous episodes in which is the flight of 
a number of ghosts when the spirit of a man who had 
recently died of smallpox tries to enter their company. 
In the third volume we come across that cold-blooded, 
cynical, cruelly polite satire entitled Jonathan Wild, 
the Great. Seldom has literature been more caustic than 
this. Bowing most courteously, Fielding leads his vil- 
lain with mock deference from the cradle, through a 
life of crime, to the gallows. The irony is so continuous, 
so calm, so merciless that the reader is liable to be- 
come angry ; in Fielding 's day it must have been a mad- 
dening rebuke to many a young London buck who swag- 
gered through the streets glorying in his prowess as a 
criminal. 

From 17-43 to 1748 little was known of Fielding. 
Seemingh^ he was financially and physically in ill 
health. Even before middle life he was suffering from 
the results of overestimation of his strength to endure 
riotous excess. In 1748 he was made a Justice of the 
Peace for Westminster, and, familiar as he was with 
all forms of crime, he was a valuable officer and a power 
for reform. It was amidst tlie arduous and dangerous 
duties of such a work that he finished in 1749 that mas- 
terpiece, Tom Jones. 

Coleridge has declared, in his Tahle Talks that (Edi- 
pi(s Tyrannus, The Alchemist, and Tom Jones are the 
three most perfect plots ever invented. Leisurely as 
the tale appears, innumerable as are the digressions, the 

232 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

book is scarcely matched in all literature in its inevita- 
ble leading to the final denouement. It is doubtful 
whether Fielding always surpassed his jjredecessors — 
Defoe and Richardson, for instance — in character por- 
trayal; but never before in English prose had been 
seen such complexity or intricacy of plot. In Joseph 
Andrews Fielding had sometimes sacrificed the charac- 
ters to the incidents ; but here they balance, they mingle, 
they develop out of each other, they .seem thoroughly 
natural and in unison. The incidents seem the logical 
results of the characters' natures; the natures of the 
characters are made evident by means of the incidents. 
Fielding is the first English writer to combine in a con- 
vincing manner every characteristic we now look for in 
the novel. 

He felt that he was producing a new type of litera- 
ture. He knew not what name to give it; but he at- 
tempted consciously to create what he called a "prose 
epic" and declared that his work contained every es- 
sential of the true fepie except the meter. Years later 
Lord Byron whole-heartedly endorsed his view, and 
dubbed him "the prose Homer of human nature." The 
human nature described, as in Joseph Andrews, is again 
rather coarse : but the same excuse may again be urged ; 
and moreover his own words may be repeated in his 
defense: "The vices to be found here are rather the 
accidental consequences of some human frailty or foible 
than causes habitually existing in the mind." 

The plot is too large to be even outlined here. Tom 
Jones, supposed to be a foundling, is reared in the home 
of Squire AUworthy, is plagued by a young hypocrite, 
Blifil, is in love with Sophia Western, almost loses her 

233 



ENGLISH FICTION 

by the many adventures his passionate blood leads him 
into, is at length proved not to be a foundling, and 
secures Sophia. As Gosse " says, this is the healthiest 
company ever devised by a human brain. There are 
fights and sprees and passionate embraces and coarse 
talk and rowdyism beyond the power of the twentieth- 
century refined vocabulary. As in Joseph Andrews, 
Fielding has no use for a sneak or a hypocrite; but 
he can easily forgive the sins of hot youtliful blood. 
He believes thoroughly in the old Irish adage : ' ' When- 
ever thou seest a bare pate, for the love of God, crack 
it!" and rich red British blood flows by the gallon. 
Molly Seagrim appears at church in unusual finery ; of- 
fensive remarks are heard; a quarrel results, and lo! a 
glorious Anglo-Saxon fight. 

"As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, 
while they are milked, they hear their calves at a dis- 
tance, lamenting the robbery which is then committing, 
roar and bellow; so roared forth the Somersetshire mob 
an halloloo, made up of almost as many squalls, screams, 
and other different sounds, as there were persons, or 
indeed passions, among them. Some were inspired by 
rage, others alarmed by fear, and others had nothing 
in their heads but the love of fun; but chiefly Envy, 
the sister of Satan and his constant companion, rushed 
among the crowd and blew up the fury of the women ; 
who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her 
with dirt and rubbish. 

"Molly, having endeavored in vain to make a hand- 
some retreat, faced about; and laying hold of ragged 
Bess, who advanced in front of the enemy, she at one 

7 Eighteenth Century Literature, p. 255. 

234 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

blow feUed her to the groimd. The whole army of the 
enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the 
fate of their general, gave back many paces, and retired 
beyond a new-dug grave; for the church-yard was the 
field of battle, where there was to be a funeral that 
very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catch- 
ing up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, dis- 
charged it with such fury, that having hit a tailor on 
the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow 
sound at their meeting, and the tailor took presently 
measure of his length on the ground, where the skulls 
lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was the 
more valuable of the two. Molly, then taking a thigh- 
bone in her hand, fell in among the flying ranks, and 
dealing her blows with great liberality on either side, 
overthrew the carcass of many a mighty hero and hero- 
ine. Recount, muse, the names of those who fell on 
this fatal day. First Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder 
head the direful bone. Him the pleasant banks of 
sweetly winding Stour had nourished, where he first 
learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and 
down at wakes and fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs 
and swains, when upon the green they interweaved the 
sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling and 
jumping to his own music. How little now avails his 
fiddle! He thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. 
Next old Echepole, the sow-gelder, received a blow in 
his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and imme- 
diately fell to the ground. He was a swinging fat fel- 
low, and fell with almost as much noise as a house. 
His tobacco-box dropt at the same time from his pocket, 
which Molly took up as lawful spoil. Then Kate of 

235 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the ]Mill tumbled uulortiuiatoly over a tombstouo, which 
oatehiug hold of her uugartered stocking, inverted the 
onier of nature, and gave her heels the superiority to 
her head. Betty Pippin, with young Koger, her lover, 
fell both to the ground; where, O Perverse Fate! she 
salutes the earth, and he the skv'." 

If the English world thought it had seen superblj' 
vivid characterization in Joseph Andrews, it had rea- 
son to disabuse its mind when Tom Joues appeared. 
Parson Adams is a charming blending of traits; Parson 
TruUiber, feeding his swine instead of his flock, is an 
admirable piece of sordid realism; but no such figures 
as the stubborn, doggedly obstinate Squire Western, the 
amiable Squire Allworthy, the calculating Blitil, and 
tliat full-blooded, harum-scarum hero, Tom Jones, had 
ever before been seen in English prose. 

Concerning the character of Tom Jones, there has 
been much divei*sity of opinion. Thackeray says of 
him: "A hero with a flawed reputation; a hero spong- 
ing for a guinea ; a hero who can 't pay his landlady, and 
is obliged to let his honor out to hire, is absurd, and 
his claim to heroic rank untenable. I protest against 'Mr. 
Thomas Jones holding such rank at all. I protest against 
his being considered a more than ordinary yoimg fel- 
low, ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered, and fond of wine 
and pleasure. He would not rob a church, but that is 
all." The ''learned" Miss Carter,® of his own day. had 
a more charitable view: *'He is no doubt an imperfect, 
but not a detestable character, with all that honesty, 
good nature and generosity.'" It is indeed a triumph 
of art that after Tom's nimierous shameful fallings 

s Carter and Talbot Correspondence, Ed. Pennington. 

236 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

from grace we feel no deep disgust at his wiDning So- 
phia. Perhaps, after all, in spite of his weakness of 
will-power in the strife against the passions that wcmld 
rise in his healthy frame, the largeness of his heart and 
the true generosity of his natnre, together with the im- 
positions and the p)etty tyranny of his hypocrite rival, 
Bliiil, are the caases of our genuine satisfaction in his 
final triumph. Forty characters appear in this huge 
narrative; it is beyond our purposes to attempt a de- 
scription of each, but whether a country squire or a 
philosophical lounger, a rural wench or a town "lady," 
all live, for the time being, as truly as any whom we 
meet to-day. 

In the midst of his fame Fielding was now reaping 
the bitter fruits of his misspent youthful energy. As 
an oflfieer of the law he was attemptiag to lead a life of 
great activity, while at the same time suffering in- 
tensely. The effect of this decline is shown in his last 
novel, Amelia, appearing in 1751. It is almost a mel- 
ancholy piece of work; the shadow of death seems to 
have been on the man as he wrote. The joy of animal 
activity is not depicted in it; but the sad results of sin 
and the hideous "other side" of vice is revealed with 
a hard, grim realism. A refined woman marries a 
gambling lieutenant. They sink together until the hus- 
band is confined in prison, there to remain in shame 
and remorse until that gentle angel. Dr. Harrison, res- 
cues him and brings them both back to their fortune. 
Doubtless as Fielding wrote the closing lines he felt 
that he was not giving a true picture of the life of his 
day: otherwise he would have sent the husband into life 
banishment in some prison colony, and would have 

237 



ENGLISH FICTION 

driven Amelia forth into the street to become a fallen 
wretch. But with that gentleness so characteristic of 
him. he perverted, for mercy s sake, the cold dictates of 
Ic^ic and art, and grave the couple that which gives the 
reader much more satisfaction. 

In 1754 Fielding felt that the end of all, for him, 
was near at hiuid. That year he went to Lisbon, writ- 
ing as he journeyed, his Journal of the Yoinige, which 
is full of the irrepressible spirit which England had 
learned 1o expect of him. It wbs published in 1755, 
after the fertile mind had ceased its wonderfully cre- 
ative work. 

Fielding's contributions to the evolution of lictiou are 
so numerous that we may simply enumerate a few of 
them without going into a discussion of each. He trans- 
ferred to the novel several of the devices so long ef- 
fective on the ancient and modern stage, such as the 
secret of a hero's birth and the (7tu,s ex machina. He 
cast aside the old idea used by Defoe of finding records 
or manuscripts from which to secure information; he 
refused to use Richardson's scheme of having letters 
from and to the characters as proof; he simply assumed 
that omnipresence now granted to any novelist who 
desires to use it. He dared to introduce his own person- 
ality by writing whole chapters of his views on nature, 
literature, art, life, what not; and this fact of person- 
ality, as Sidney Lanier has pointed out, is an extremely 
modern trait, a characteristic almost totally absent 
from the ancient classic literature. He introduced local 
color in such a way that we may follow his characters 
from town to town, and this is an undeniable aid in 
maldng these figures more living and more believable. 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

He bnilt a plot on a gigantic scale and held it together 
^^ith a masterly grip. lie set np for fiction a code of 
ethics which is still appreciated and believed — the oode 
that innate goodness of being is a greater, more ad- 
mirable trait in a hero than mere goodness of dcnng. 
Lastly, he created men and women so vital, virile, and 
mortal that they seem fore^'ermore not like creatures of 
paper and type, bnt veritable bodies of flesh. He had 
that for which the prophets and saints of old prayed, 
not mere knowledge, not mere information, bnt urider- 
gtanding, and that abundantly. 

In Fielding the eighteenth-eentnry novel reached its 
greatest height ; there now begins a steady decline until 
towards the close of the century when we shall find 
innumerable ambitious but incapable ladies and gentle- 
men of a literary turn struggling in a veritable slough 
of confusion and bewilderment. 

SARAH TTELDLSG 

This horde of minor noveltsts began to appear even 
in Fielding's own day. Perhaps the best of the earlier 
ones was his own sinter, Sarah, whose David Simph, 
published in 1742, shows an admiration for Richardson 
not held by her brother, and shows also a certain care, 
compactness, and neatness of plot, and some keen analyBis 
of character of which even the great Henry might not 
have been ashamed. But Sarah Fielding was overshad- 
owed by the genius and the immense popularity not only 
of Richardson and of her brother, bnt of a new master, 
a queer, bitter feUow named Tobias SmoUett ^1721- 
1771). 



239 



ENGLISH FICTION 



TOBIAS SMOLLETT 



This man was true to his age. His roughness, 
coarseness, practical joking, brawls, abductions, plain 
filth must have been eminently satisfying to eighteenth- 
century readers. He came of an aristocratic family, 
was cared for by his uncle, a knight, in a beautiful sec- 
tion of Dumbartonshire, and with a good education 
went down to London in 1739. His play, The Regicide, 
was refused by Garrick, and, being in lack of money, 
he became a surgeon's mate in the English navy, and 
for some time led the rough life of a seaman. He lived 
in Jamaica, and is said to have married a woman of 
wealth; but in 1744 he once more appeared in London 
streets and led the Bohemian form of life so attractive 
to him. It was in 1748 that his first novel, Roderick 
Random, gained the applause of London literary circles. 
It was plain to all readers that this was a book born of 
experience, something almost in the form of a biography 
of its author. In fact, the Scotchman in the story goes 
through many of the experiences that came to Smollett 
himself. It was a tale that took both sea and land as 
its field, and naturally British readers wore enthusiastic 
in their praise. As a ship surgeon he had become thor- 
oughly acquainted with naval affairs and sea-dogs; as 
a struggling physician in London he had learned accu- 
rately the eccentricities of the city middle and lower 
classes; his work therefore possessed a breadth very 
novel to readers of his day. 

Three years later (1751) Smollett followed his first 
success with a second, Peregrine Pickle, a book better 
written in some parts, with even more breadth, sweep,, 

240 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

and humor, and certainly fully as coarse as the most 
licentious dandy of the eighteenth century could have 
desired. Two years later came Ferdinand Count 
Fathom, not so good a book, because, with all his coarse- 
ness and rough characters, its author endeavors to be 
romantic. The book Avas never highly popular even in 
his own time, and Smollett's egotism and pride were 
somewhat dashed by what he considered a lack of pub- 
lic appreciation of the * 'artistic." He had other 
causes, moreover, for being in a bad humor at this time. 
With a disposition always cynical, biting and highly 
sarcastic, he had offended many people by his observa- 
tions, not only on human kind in general, but on noted' 
Englishmen in particular, and at length, being arrested 
for libel, he found himself in jail in 1761. Here he 
employed his large leisure on a new novel, Sir Launcelot 
Greaves (1762), perhaps a better book than Ferdinand, 
at least more popular, but by no means equal to the 
earlier attempts. 

Somewhat dismayed by the results of his venomous 
attacks on his enemies, and rather discouraged over his 
fall in popularity as a fiction-writer, he now turned to 
history writing, produced a book along this line that 
gained considerable fame and sale, but nearly ruined 
his impaired health in the work. He traveled in France 
and Italy in 1766, but his physical frame was con- 
stantly tormented by the hating and tempestuous spirit 
within, and, discontented with all he saw, he came back 
to England but little improved. The venom in the 
man had now been too long without a vent, and in 1769 
it burst forth in his Adventures of an Atom, a volume 
positively disgusting in its maliciousness toward all 
16 241 



ENGLISH FICTION 

mankind. The man's body was by this time fearfully 
racked; another visit to the Continent was demanded. 
At Leghorn he came under the care of a physician who 
strove to cure his spirit as well as his body, and under 
this influence he produced his last and his least bitter 
story. The Expedition of Humphrey CJinker (1771), 
published shortly aft^r his death. 

As in Byron's poetry, there is a touch of the auto- 
biographical in everything Smollett wroto. And like 
himself, his fiction is perverse, rough, now wildly hu- 
morous, now madly sullen. Envy, selfishness, the mean- 
est attributes of man are lingered over. He delights in 
a ' ' savage analysis of motive, ' ' * and in his bitterness 
refuses to see the sweetness and the charm of humanity. 
He is the Swift among novelists. His joy is a ma- 
licious exposition of malicious traits. 

Eoderick Eandom, Peregrine PicTde and Humphrey 
ClinJcer are filled with scenes and adventures that seem 
to be natural enough in themselves: but that they are 
always logical in their sequence is very doubtful. 
SmoUett seems to have a habit of inserting a chapter 
because it is funny, and not because it aids in the 
progress of the story; while his undeniably brilliant 
work shows so much hatred that not infrequently 
his speeches and acts do not seem consistent. "We 
must not. therefore, look to Smollett for that close- 
ness or intricacy of plot found in Richardson and Field- 
ing, but rather for a collection of adventures that hap- 
pened to occur to some one person or group of persons. 

The idea of justice seems to be entirely absent from 
this author "s mental equipment. In Roderick Eandom 

» Cross: Development of the English Xovel, p. 51. 

212 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

the hero, a wild scamp who does every deed but the right 
one, gains as his reward a beautiful, elean-souled girl; 
in the second novel, Peregrine Pickle, the same thing 
happens. Let us look briefly at the plot of this second 
work. Peregrine, whose mother has a violent aversion 
to him — and we can not blame her — is adopted by 
Commodore Trunnion, who, with one-legged Jack 
Hatchway and Tom Pipes, is occupying a ship-like 
home named the Garrison. The place has a ditch and 
a drawbridge; Jack and Tom must take their turns at 
being "on the watch"; all sleep in hammocks; time is 
reckoned by "bells" instead of hours; everything 
smacks of the sea. The Commodore, a confirmed bach- 
elor, has a profound dread of being captured by some 
woman, — and well he may. For Peregrine's Aunt 
Grizzle, a sour female with a cast in one eye, sets her 
other eye on the old sailor as a legitimate victim. She 
is aided by Hatchway and Pipes, who doubtless are 
growing tired of spending so many "bells" on the look- 
out. The Commodore, however, remains totally ob- 
livious to any such appeals, until Pipes, climbing on 
the roof one night, lowers through the chimney a bunch 
of phosphorescent whitings, and yells through the 
speaking trumpet, "Trunnion! Trunnion! turn out and 
be spliced, or lie still and be damned." The voice of 
the supernatural is not to be scorned, and the gruff old 
victim reluctantly consents to the marriage. Unfortu- 
nately, on the road to the church, the Commodore's old 
fox-hunting horse runs away after the hounds, and the 
ceremony is postponed to a later day. At length, how- 
ever, the two are "spliced" and return to the Garrison. 
Here they go to bed in a hammock, which soon breaks 

243 



ENGLISH FICTION 

down under the double burden, and both hit the floor, 
much to Aunt Grizzle's disgust and anger. The next 
day furniture reforms take place that almost break the 
old fellow's heart. 

Peregrine now goes off to school, falls in love with 
Amelia Gauntlet, and sends love verses to her by Pipes, 
who puts them in his shoe, and then finding them worn 
to pieces, writes some of his own as substitutes. The 
surprise of Miss Amelia at the poetic tributes resulting 
may be imagined; she and Peregrine are no longer on 
speaking terms. Peregrine goes to Oxford and finds 
later an opportunity to explain all to Amelia. His 
uncle now discovers the love affair, and he and Peregrine 
are separated for the time being. "I am informed as 
how you are in chase of a painted galley, which will 
decoy you upon the flats of destruction, unless you keep 
a better look out and a surer reckoning than you have 
hitherto done." Peregrine and Hatchway now quarrel 
over this matter and are about to have a duel, when 
Pipes interferes; later, however, Peregrine, ''full of 
bloody execution," has one with Amelia's brother. The 
young rascal now goes abroad, comes back a moral 
wreck, vainly tempts the virtue of Amelia, and is called 
home by the dying Commodore. ''Swab the spray 
from your bowsprit," cries the Commodore, "and coil 
up your spirits. You must not let the toplifts of your 
heart give way because you see me ready to go down at 
these years. . . . Here has been a doctor that 
wanted to stow me chock-full of physic, but when a 
man's hour is come, what signifies his taking his de- 
parture with a 'pothecary's shop in his hold? Those 
fellows come alongside of dying men, like the messen- 

244 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

gers of the Admiralty, with sailing orders; but I told 
him as how I could slip my cable without his direction 
or assistance, and so he hauled off in dudgeon." 

Possessed now of a good portion of his uncle's money, 
Peregrine returns to London, drugs Amelia, and takes 
her to private lodgings. She, however, unlike Clarissa 
Harlowe, does not die, but gives him a scorching rebuke. 
Here the story is interrupted for the introduction of the 
Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, one of the most foully 
suggestive narratives in any literature. Peregrine hav- 
ing squandered his money, now tries writing for a live- 
lihood, is put into the Fleet for libel, but is at length 
released by securing the necessary cash, and marries 
Amelia, who, now an heiress, quickly forgives the past. 
Peregrine's father dies and leaves him a fortune. The 
rascal gains all the material rewards of this life. 

All this is mingled with riot, coarse joys, satire, 
pictures of blackguards and scoundrels, and ferocious 
stabs at humanity. Well may Taine say: "He flings 
together personages the most revolting with the most 
grotesque — a Lieutenant Lismahago, half-roasted by 
Red Indians; sea wolves who pass their lives in shout- 
ing and travestying all their ideas into a sea jargon; 
old maids as ugly as she-asses, as withered as skeletons, 
and as acrid as vinegar; maniacs steeped in pedantry, 
hypochondria, misanthropy and silence. . . . The 
public whom he addresses is on a level with his energy 
and roughness, and in order to shake such nerves a 
writer cannot strike too hard. ' ' ^^ Peregrine Pickle is 
as immoral as his predecessor, Roderick Random, and 
gains his ends through sheer brute force. Yet he and 

'^'i History of English Literature, Vol. IV, p. 323. 

245 



ENGLISH FICTION 

all the other characters are marvelously vivid and living 
beings. Lieutenant Jack Hatchway, Pipes and Commo- 
dore Trunnion, with Tom Bowling and Jack Eattlin 
in Roderick Random, are the forefathers of the long line 
of sea characters so frequently met with in English and 
American fiction, and fully deserve a place in the gal- 
lery of the immortals in literature. In spite of the 
disgust which we sometimes feel in reading, and in spite, 
too, of the seemingly careless throwing together of not 
necessarily connected short plots, we are carried on 
from page to page by the fine mingling of humor, se- 
riousness, satire, and activity. 

Humphrey CliiiJcer, the product of a more sane and 
peaceful spirit, has a humor refreshingly free from the 
earlier bitterness. The story seems badly named, as 
Humphry is a ^Methodist postilion who joins the Bram- 
bles family in their wanderings, and is never at any 
time very prominent. He and other Methodists in the 
book are introduced as objects of ridicule. The real 
figures of importance are ]\Iatthew Brambles, in search 
of health, and Miss Tabitha Brambles, in search of a 
husband. There is an "aside" love plot between a 
niece, Lydia, and a mysterious stranger ; but most of the 
story centers about the two figures first mentioned, and 
an ugly Scotchman, Lismahago, Miss Tabitha is a 
character never to be forgotten. ' ' She is tall, raw-boned, 
awkward, flat-chested and stooping; her complexion is 
sallow and freckled ; her eyes are not gray, but greenish 
like those of a cat, and generally inflamed ; her hair 
is of a sandy or rather dusty hue ; her forehead low ; 
her nose long, sharp, and toward the extremity, always 

246 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

red in cool weather; her lips skinny; her mouth exten- 
sive; her teeth straggling and loose, of various colors 
and conformation -. and her long neck shriveled into a 
thousand wrinkles." Her efforts to enchant the blunt, 
hard-headed Lismahago form some of the most ludicrous 
scenes in English fiction. Lismahago had been married 
once to an Indian squaw; Miss Tabitha's curiosity was 
aroused by his hints about this wild damsel. 

"These observations served only to inflame her de- 
sire of knowing the particulars about which she had 
inquired; and with all his evasion he could not help 
discovering the following circumstances: that his 
princess had neither shoes, stockings, shift, nor any 
kind of linen; that her bridal dress consisted of a pet- 
ticoat of red baize and a fringed blanket fastened about 
her shoulders with a copper skewer; but of ornaments 
she had great plenty. Her hair was curiously plaited 
and interwoven with bobbins of human bones ; one eye- 
lid was painted green, and the other yellow; the cheeks 
were blue, the lips white, the teeth red, and there was a 
black list drawn down the middle of the forehead as far 
as the tip of the nose: a couple of gaudy parrot's feath- 
ers were stuck through the divisions of the nostrils; 
there was a blue stone set in the chin ; her earrings con- 
sisted of two pieces of hickory, of the size and shape of 
drumsticks; her arms and legs were adorned with 
bracelets of wampum ; her breast glittered with numer- 
ous strings of glass beads : she wore a curious pouch or 
pocket of woven grass, elegantly painted with various 
colors ; about her neck was hung the fresh scalp of a 
Mohawk warrior, whom her deceased lover had lately 

247 



ENGLISH FICTION 

slain in battle; and tinally, she was anointed from head 
to foot with bear's grease, which sent forth a most 
agreeable odor." 

Much of the humor of Smollett would doubtless prove 
decidedly- distasteful to the modem French; and yet 
many a touch of it came to him thi*ough their language 
from the Spanish. Both he and Fielding owed much to 
Cervantes and Le Sage, and the horse play and prac- 
tical jokes of the English authors have a plentiful sup- 
ply of parallels in their Spanish and French models. 
The streaks of wild exaggeration, the frequent satire 
against woman, the tendency to make some characters 
so ridiculous as almost to change them to caricatures 
are elements which Smollett, received from the Conti- 
nent, and which he handed on down to as late a writer 
as Dickens. Along with this farcical tendency goes a 
remarkable power in describing English scenes, and in 
depicting social conditions, prisons, and legal tortures 
in all that horror which the non-imaginative writings 
of the eighteenth century prove so sadly true. Not the 
slightest touch of brotherly love invades Smollett's 
work. Apparently the philanthropic theories of the 
"Wesleys were undreamed of in his nature, and few, if 
any, ideals of lofty virtue pass before us as we read. 
And yet he claims a moral purpose in portraying all 
this coarse evil. Many, he declares, "are deterred from 
the practice of vice by the infamy and punishment to 
which it is liable from the laws and regulations of man- 
kind." 

Richardson and Fielding had shown the limits, pur- 
poses and capabilities of the novel: it remained for 
Smollett but to work in a field already cultivated and 

248 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

fertilized. In some ways he improved the field. As 
we have seen, he introduced a new type in his sailors, 
and a new scene of activity in his sea life ; he painted 
the picaresque with a broadened stroke; he used satire 
and hearty humor in a manner not seen in previous 
prose fiction ; he emphasized, if he did not indeed intro- 
duce, the difference between personal view-points of the 
same scene, character, or theory, and thus showed more 
clearly the variations in human nature ; and, lastly, he 
may be said to have fathered the "Gothic" romance of 
the later eighteenth century by the gloom and tragedy 
with which he surrounded some of his ocean scenes and 
fights. 

LAURENCE STERXE 

Eight years after the appearance of Peregrine Pickle 
there appeared the first volume of what is perhaps the 
oddest and most eccentric novel in all the world's fic- 
tion — The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. 
Tear after year the volumes appeared until the ninth 
and last one of 1767, four years before Smollett's last 
and best story, Humphrey Clinker. The author of this 
queer mixture of ridicule, pathos, forced humor, and 
delicate sentiment, Laurence Sterne (1713-1768), was 
fully as queer as his book. Bom at Clonmel, Ireland, 
the son of a wandering soldier, and one of a large num- 
ber of weak children bom during the hurried camp life, 
he had, as a child, few opportunities to show that subtle 
genius which he undoubtedly possessed. He roamed 
about with the regiment for some years; but, in 1731, 
his father having been killed in a duel in Jamaica, a 
relative took him in hand, and from 1732 to 1735 he 

249 



ENGLISH FICTION 

was a student in Jesus College, Cambridge. At school, 
however, he seemed but an average fellow. In 1738 he 
became a country parson, married a woman who brought 
him an extra "living," and for more than twenty years 
he preached, dabbled in painting, played the violin, in- 
dulged in a deal of vice, quarreled with his wife because 
of his intimacy with other women, and told shamefully 
coarse jokes at rich men's tables. A hypocrite in every 
path of life he entered, he could strike off at a mo- 
ment's notice, a noble thought, such as: "God tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb," or a nauseating tale such 
as we need not relate in this work. The country 
squires and other aristocrats welcomed him to their ta- 
bles, not because he added honor to the occasion, but 
because the indecent jokes had an additional piquancy 
when heard from the lips of a clergyman. 

At forty-six Sterne produced the first volume of Tris- 
tram, and published it at York, January 1, 1760, and im- 
mediately had the English reading public at his feet. 
Now followed seven years of hilarious life, the only 
edifying features of which were the appearances of new 
volumes of Tristram's curious conglomeration. Mean- 
while Sterne's health broke; he spent a year on the 
Continent, but was back in England in 1764. After 
spending about a year at home, he was compelled to re- 
turn once more to Southern Europe, where he remained 
during a portion of 1765 and 1766. Besides finishing 
Tristram, he was busy writing another work, a two- 
volume Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy 
hy Mr. Yorick (1768). Now, however, the body was ex- 
hausted by the labors of both fiction and vice. He 
wrote to friends: "I have torn my whole frame into 

250 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

pieces by my feelings. ' ' The truth of his statement was 
proved by his sudden death, March 18, 1768. His 
whole life had been out of the path of custom, and even 
in death fate would not allow him the customary rest ; 
it is said that his body was stolen by Cambridge profes- 
sors of medicine and dissected — perhaps in a vain effort 
to locate the source of his whimsical wit. 

Whim and wit — these are the elements ever present in 
his work. Gosse ^^ declares that his humor is some- 
times worthy of Shakespeare. He plagiarizes out- 
rageously; but nevertheless his original way of com- 
bining his plagiarism, his fancy, his insinuating wit, his 
keen observations of man, and his piquant manner of 
putting things, place him among the greater writers of 
English fiction. We can point out, without the least dif- 
ficulty, where he appropriates this part from Cervantes 
and that from Rabelais, this from Burton's Anatomy 
of Melancholy, and that from Swift's satirical writings, 
much of the plan from Arbuthnot's Memoirs of Marti- 
nus Scriblerus (1741), and ideas and jokes from a score 
of famous wits of both England and the Continent. 
But everything he took he permeated with his own per- 
sonality, and each pilfered portion seems to belong as 
naturally in its place as a piece in a patchwork quilt. 

The book is indeed a literary patchwork quilt. 
Everything in it is topsyturvy. The very name of it is 
misleading. Tristram Shandy is not born until the 
third volume, and does not do much after he is bom. 
The preface also appears in the third volume. Sterne 
informs us that he is going to leave certain chapters to 
our imagination, and after he has carried us forward a 

11 Eighteenth-Century Literature, p. 270. 

251 



ENGLISH FICTION 

hundred pages, decides to write the chapter himself, 
and not trust to our imagination. He often starts a 
chapter, suddenly concludes that it is useless, and then 
passes to the next. It is the most curious hodgepodge 
that ever assumed the name of fiction. Eccentric sub- 
jects are discussed in eccentric manners. It possesses 
a mass of digressions, commentaries, trivial sermonettes, 
and grave dissertations on worthless subjects. There is 
hardly a direct page in the book. Indeed Sterne shies 
at directness like a frisky horse that disdains the 
straight road. Plotless, we might call the whole work; 
he pushes Smollett's carelessness in form to chaos; and 
yet when we finish the work we realize that we have 
been in an atmosphere of reality, and have associated 
with characters that we shall remember throughout all 
our days. 

In this witty commentary on life, this series of hints, 
this collection of odds and ends where really nothing of 
importance happens, it is the characters that hold our 
attention. With all the leisure and detail that the 
slowest of readers could desire, the thoughts, conversa- 
tions, and petty acts of these truly living beings are re- 
ported until we dare not doubt the existence of the 
strange group. It is a book of fools. Mr. Shandy, the 
meditative, speculative fool, can not buy his boy Tristram 
a pair of trousers or shoes until he looks up the history 
of these articles and deeply considers what the past ages 
deemed the best forms. Uncle Toby is an innocent fool, 
who, with his pipe and maps of the latest campaigns, 
sits in blissful ignorance of his danger, until the Widow 
Wadman captures him. See how finely this catastrophe 
in Uncle Toby's life is portrayed. Day after day he 

252 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURA 

has been working with Corporal Trim on his tiny fort- 
ress in the open field laid out for the purpose; he has 
been very busy and very happy; but "Widow Wadman, 
with deep-laid schemes, has built a summer house on the 
border that she may view the activities. A bit of wind 
and dust aid her vastly. 

" 'I am half distracted, Captain Shandy,' said Mrs. 
Wadman, holding up her cambric handkerchief to her 
left eye, as she approached the door of my uncle Toby 's 
sentry-box, — ' a mote, or sand, or something — I know not 
what — has got into this eye of mine; do look into it; it 
is not in the white.' 

"In saying which Mrs. Wadman edged herself close 
in beside my uncle Toby, and squeezing herself down 
upon the corner of his bench, she gave him an opportu- 
nity of doing it without rising up. 'Do look into it,' 
said she. 

"Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much 
innocency of heart as ever child looked into a rare show 
box ; and 't were as much a sin to have hurt thee. 

"If a man will be peeping of his own accord into 
things of that nature, I have nothing to say to it. 

"The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at 
one at all. 'T is surmounted. And, — 

"I see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his 
hand, and the ashes falling out of it, looking — and — 
looking — then rubbing his eyes and looking again, with 
twice the good nature that ever Galileo looked for a spot 
in the sun. 

"In vain! for, by all the powers which animate the 
organ — Widow Wadman 's left eye shines this moment 

253 



ENGLISH FICTION 

as lucid as her right; there is neither mote, nor sand, 
or dust, or chaff, or speck, or particle of opaque matter 
floating in it — there is nothing, my dear, paternal uncle ! 
but one lambent, delicious fire furtively shooting out 
from every part of it, in all directions, into thine. 

"If thou lookest, Uncle Toby, in search of this mote 
one moment longer thou art undone, 

" 'I protest, Madam,' said my uncle Toby, *I can see 
nothing whatever in your eye.' 

" 'It is not in the white,' said Mrs. Wadman. My 
uncle Toby looked with might and main into the pupil. 

"It was not, Madam, a rolling eye — a romping or a 
wanton one; nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant or 
imperious, of high claims and terrifying exactions, 
which would have curdled at once that milk of human 
nature of which my uncle Toby was made up; but 
'twas an eye full of gentle salutations and soft re- 
sponses, speaking not like the trumpet-stop of some 
ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to holds 
coarse converse, but whispering, soft, like the last low 
accents of an expiring saint. 'How can j^ou live com- 
fortless, Captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom 
to lean your head on or trust your cares to?' 

* ' It was an eye — 

' ' But I shall be in love with it myself if I say another 
word about it. 

"It did my uncle Toby's business. . . ." 

Now, all these hints, broken sentences, fragments of 
narrative may seem very affected; and so they are; but 
they compose some of the most artistic and difficult 

254 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

affectation in all literature. We leave the book with 
accurate images of certain situations and of the figures 
taking part, and yet we should seek in vain for any 
long or definite descriptions of them. Slight delicate 
touches, scattered hither and thither at length, how- 
ever, do their perfect work, and we close the novel 
repaid for all the blind galleries and false doors we 
have entered and all the side steps and retracing of 
steps we have undergone. 

Broken as is the work, each little portion is a gem of 
its kind. Whether it be a scene, a conversation, or an 
episode, it is a bit of description hard to excel. Sterne 
was a man who was constantly striking an attitude, and 
so are his characters. A gesture by Uncle Toby or 
Corporal Trim often conveys more meaning than a 
multitude of words. But amidst all this affectedness 
and this posing, there is many a touch of the softer 
sentiments not to be found in the work of Fielding or 
Smollett. Note the famous description of Lefevre's 
death. 

"A sick brother-ofSeer should have the best quarters, 
Trim ; and if we had him with us, — we could tend and 
look to him. — Thou art an excellent nurse thyself. Trim ; 
— and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, 
and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him 
again at once, and set him upon his legs. 

" — In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle 
Toby, smiling, he might march. — He will never march, 
an' please your Honour, in this world, said the Corporal. 
— He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from 
the side of the bed with one shoe off. — An' please your 
Honour, said the Corporal, he will never march but to 

255 



ENGLISH FICTION 

his grave. — He shall march, cried my ancle Toby, 
marching the foot Avhich had a shoe on, though without 
advancing an inch, — he sliall march to his regiment. — 
He cannot stand it, said the Corporal. — He shall be 
supported, said my uncle Toby, — He'll drop at last, 
said the Corporal, and what will become of his boy? — 
He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. — Ah, 
well-a-day ! — do what we can for him, said Trim, main- 
taining his point, — the poor soul will die. — He shall not 
die, hy G — , cried my uncle Toby. 

" — The accusing spirit, which flew up to Heaven's 
chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; — and 
the recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a 
tear upon the word, and blotted it out forever. ' ' 

And yet, about all his sentiment or sentimentality 
Sterne has a subtle touch of sarcasm. He loves to tell 
a ''sad, sad story" with a sly twinkle in one comer of 
his wicked ej^es. Versed in this world's affairs, he had 
lost all delusions, and with all his assumed eccentricity 
in writing, he stands opposed to the morbid sentimental- 
ism of such writers as Richardson and Rousseau, and 
indirectly — which was his waj^ — declares against the 
melancholy or overwise cranks met with in daily life. 

''rasselas" 

There remained during the middle years of the eight- 
eenth century but two novels showing positive genius, 
Johnson's Rasselas (1759) and Goldsmith's Vicar of 
Wakefield (1766). The facts of Johnson's life and the 
eccentricities of his nature are too well known to re- 
quire rehearsal here. Melancholy by nature and sud- 
denly plunged into genjiine grief by the death of hia 

256 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

mother, he brought together in his Rasselas the fruit 
of many years of observation and experience. The old 
cry of the preacher in Ecclesiastes and of Omar Khay- 
yam is reechoed in this solemn utterance of the modern 
centuries: Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. "Written, 
though it was, in the nights of two weeks, in order to 
pay his mother's funeral expenses, it shows no signs of 
haste, but rolls forth its deep-toned message with melan- 
choly dignity and heavy eloquence. It is the work of 
a mature and naturally solid mind which has reached 
certain definite conclusions concerning this earthly ex- 
istence, and which, therefore, speaks with authority 
when it begins the plaintive story with those pessimistic 
words: "Ye, who listen with credulity to the whispers 
of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of 
hope ; who expect that age will perform the promises of 
youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will 
be supplied by the morrow; attend to the history of 
Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia." 

A young prince and his sister are kept by a 
careful father away from the world in a mountain fast- 
ness known as Happy Valley. No evil enters there ; 
all apparently is ideal; and yet even this pleasantness 
becomes monotonous. Rasselas with his sister and an 
old philosopher, Imlac, at length escape and go into the 
world to find that happiness which they firmly believe 
is there. They look among the thoughtless for it; it is 
not there. They look among the vnse with their theories 
and philosophies ; but lo, it is not there. They walk in 
the courts and the cities; it is not there. All, all is 
vanity and vexation of spirit. Back to the secluded 
valley they wander, back like old men returning to 
1' 257 



ENGLISH FICTION 

dreams of eliildhood, there to find at least some sem- 
blance of the happiness for which they have sought 
elsewhere in vain. It is indeed the first chapters of 
Ecchsiastcs told in the form of a novel. 

Of course Easselas lacks many of the qualities and 
elements we expect in fiction. There is practically no 
clash of wills; there is no love-making; there are no 
highly exciting adventures; there is no deep psycho- 
logical investigation ; but there is indeed a great ethical 
lesson made clear by the experiences of a little group 
of searchers for truth. All this, it should be noted, is in 
a language sonorous, solemn, beautiful ^^^th that large 
beauty so peculiarly- Johnson's. It is the wisdom of a 
man who has lived, suffered, and conquered. In its 
solemnity, its true pathos, its high elevation above the 
petty struggles of life, it seems like a lonely voice cry- 
ing in the wilderness of eighteenth-century earthiness 
and materialism. 

"vicar of WAKEFIELD" 

Goldsmith's Vicar of WaTxc field is also a fruit of ex- 
perience. Its author "who wrote like an angel but 
talked like a poor Poll" had suffered the rebuffs of 
fortune, had led a life so thoroughly human in its 
blunders, vanities, humiliations and griefs and joys, 
had become so versed in the nature of humanity that 
when he put pen to paper he knew only too well this 
"sorr^- scheme of things" and could not but give us a 
picture true, beautiful, touching. His genuine kindness 
of heart made all men love him. When he died Burke 
burst into tears; Reynolds, who had refused to stop 
painting on Sunday, laid aside his brushes; Garrick 

258 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEExVTH CENTURY 

mourned as for a brother ; and strangest of all, the 
great Johnson could not talk! This same innate kind- 
ness made him try to reconstruct the "sorry scheme" 
more to our heart's desire; he could not allow the inno- 
cent to suffer long; he felt it his duty to twist the plot 
so that all should end in happiness for those to whom 
it was due. 

The book is one of the happiast efforts in English 
literature, and yet the plot is one of the most ridicu- 
loasly impossible things ever conceived in that litera- 
ture. We are asked to believe that a character is com- 
pletely disguised by merely changing his suit of clothes. 
"We are told that a nephew is practically the same age 
as his uncle, although that nephew is the son of the 
uncle's younger brother; the whole work is hastily and 
loosely slung together. But the spirit of it all — the 
same spirit that has made the Deserted Village beloved 
for generations — makes full amends for its multitude 
of petty technical defects. Here, too, are the sweet- 
ness and light, the sweet reasonableness, the ideals of 
the great Teacher of Galilee that -will some day make 
this world a gentler and a nobler place. As GoldsTaith 
points out in his preface, there is another universal ele- 
ment in this story : ' ' The hero of this piece unites 
in himself the three greatest characters upon earth: — 
he is a priest, a husbandman, and the father of a family. 
He is drawn as ready to teach and ready to obey — as 
rsimple in affluence and majestic in adversity." 

There is a refrashing purity in this narrative — ex- 
ceedingly refreshing because so frequently absent from 
the other fiction of the century. True, the iasertion of 
the visit of the two "ladies" from London is a slight 

259 



ENGLISH FICTION 

surrender to the coarse tastes of the day; true, there is 
an abduction in it ; but the villain finds himself tricked 
at last and legally married to the woman whom he had 
hoped to ruin. These things, however, are but incidents 
in the course of the work; through it all are the pure 
air of the country roadside, the fragrance of flowers and 
ripening fruit, a charming suggestion of sane and 
strong purity. The very hiunor of the story — totally 
unlike the humor we have been dealing with — is clean 
and innocent. The selling of the colt for a gross of 
green spectacles has passed into the gallery of classic 
incidents. " 'A fig for the silver rims,' said my wife 
in a passion : ' I dare swear they won 't sell for above 
half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shil- 
lings the ounce.' 'You need be under no uneasiness,' 
cried I, 'about selling the rims, for they are not worth 
sixpence, for I perceive that they are only copper 
varnished over.' 'What!' cried my wife, 'not silver, 
the rims not silver!' 'No,' cried I, 'no more silver than 
your saucepan.' 'And so,' returned she, 'we have 
parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green 
spectacles with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A 
murrain take such trumpery! The blockhead has been 
imposed upon, and should have known his company bet- 
ter.' 'There, my dear,' cried I, 'you are wrong: he 
should not have known them at all.' 'Marry, hang the 
idiot,' returned she, 'to bring such stuff! If I had 
them, I would throw them into the fire ! ' ' There, 
again, you are wrong, my dear,' cried I, 'for though they 
are copper, we will keep them by us, as copper specta- 
cles, you know, are better than nothing.' " How totally 
different from the rough play of Fielding, the coarse 

260 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

practical jokes of Smollett, and the suggestive wit of 
Sterne. 

The characters are permanent because true and sat- 
isfying. Dr. Primrose may make mistakes ; but his 
plain decency and blunt common sense endear him to 
all who hate h\'poerisy, and make him more nearly an. 
ideal man than any of the wild physical beings created 
by Fielding or Smollett. "With his gentleness, reason- 
ableness, his pure dignity, he does indeed, as Scott says, 
reconcile us to human nature. There is many a touch 
of sly ridicule in the work: ^Mrs. Primrose's sudden 
efforts to marry her daughters far above their rank; 
the endeavors of these daughters to increase their nat- 
ural beauty by means of the well-known artificial aids ; 
the aristocratic talk of the fine "ladies" just arrived 
from London : but, on the whole, there is a spirit of easy 
forgiveness that must have sounded strange indeed to 
eighteenth-century ears. Life, in spite of its trials, is 
portrayed as so very harmonious in this book: the good 
and right way seems so reasonable; surely, the work 
was a valuable lesson for its generation. 

"We know, as we close the story, that blessings are 
unnaturally heaped up at the last; painfully we realize 
that it is not so in life : grudgingly we admit that in 
so far it deviates from truth, and therefore from art; 
but then we know that it has charmed its readers all 
these years, and we feel confident that it will do so for 
centuries to come. "WTiy is this? Simply because 
Goldsmith puts before us in living form an ideal of 
beauty. TVTiat is beauty? Is it not your conception 
in ami:hing of that freedom for which you yourself are 
longing? The Vicar comes before us free from the 

261 



ENGLISH FICTION 

petty envies, the malice, the back-biting, revengeful na- 
ture that have long made humanity unlovely, and we 
love him and consider him beautiful for his very free- 
dom. Whatsoever things are good, whatsoever things 
are of good report — these he clings to. It would be 
folly to attempt to separate the ethical and purely lit- 
erary in a discussion of this masterpiece. Put before 
us with simple honesty and frankness, the Vicar is effec- 
tive because he is innately good ; though we may smile at 
him, many of us will wish that we were more like him. 

PROBLEM-NOVELS 

So far our novelists have taken human nature and' 
the emotions of the heart as their theme. Having no 
special theory to prove concerning this or that *'ism," 
they have given strong, well-rounded and universal 
views of man, his ideals, his feelings, and his motives. 
Now, however, as the novel began to degenerate, its 
writers brought forward their little special theories of 
life, their miserable little hobbies, and forthwith rode 
these (and with them the novel) almost to destruction. 
This man has a theory as to politics, and down it goes 
into a story ; another has a belief as to education ; it 
forthwith becomes a novel ; another thinks that the su- 
pernatural is the greatest cause of emotions, and he 
writes a "Gothic" romance. Whenever a nation be- 
gins to use its fiction as a means of expressing its petty 
hobbies, that moment its fiction has entered the road to 
death. 

leland's "longsword" 

Charles Johnstone's contemptible Adventures of a 
Guinea (1760), with its Smollett-like hatred pushed to 

262 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

brutal, disgusting ferocity, is one of the earliest exam- 
ples of this use of the novel for exploiting an opinion — 
in short, for hobby-riding. A far more important ex- 
ample is Thomas Leland's Longsword, Earl of Salis- 
bury (1762), in which the author, seized with a mania 
for the weird, wrote a book of thrills, and thus uncon- 
sciously helped to father the Gothic romance, and as a 
further evolution, the historical romance. As has been 
pointed out, Smollett makes use of grim terror in some 
of his ocean scenes, and it may be that Leland took the 
hint from him, and to some extent from Defoe. How- 
ever that may be, the story contains some portions as 
weirdly romantic as one could desire. As a character 
creeps into a black graveyard, a clock in the tower above 
him strikes twelve, the owl gives a hideous screech, and 
the man throws himself down over a new-made grave. 
In Longsword we find also some of those elements which 
we have long expected to find in the old-fashioned his- 
torical novel— the knights, the tournaments, the castles, 
in short, what Scott calls the ' ' big bow-wow strain, ' ' 

"castle of otranto" 

Hard upon this came Walpole's romantic attempt, 
The Castle of Otranto (1764). Supposed to be a tale of 
the thirteenth century, it possesses the gloomy castle 
with hidden doors, dark passages, subterranean corri- 
dors, and deep dungeons. Manfred, a blood-thirsty 
tyrant, holds this huge pile in unlawful possession ; a 
brave monk threatens him with God 's vengeance ; a 
giant rattles, his great frame in a dark upper chamber; 
the frightened servants move in terror of their very 
breath; as Llanf red's son enters the great hall for his 

263 



ENGLISH FICTION 

marriage, a mighty helmet suspended from the ceiling 
falls and crushes him. It is a fated family, like that 
in Poe's Fall of the House of TJ slier. Horace Walpole 
was brilliantly equipped for the work of writing such a 
story of old days; for as a student of customs he pos- 
sessed much accurate knowledge of the past. But in his 
attempt to combine the traits of the old Norman-French 
romance with the traits of modem fiction, he undertook 
the impossible; logical as is his series of impossible or 
supernatural incidents, one would have to be indeed 
ultraromantic to be in sympathy with the story, and 
many doubtless would find it a source of humor rather 
than of terror. 

The realistic manner seemingly can not be applied to 
the impossible romances of ancient times. The story 
of King Arthur moves in such an atmosphere of the un- 
real that we willingly take the impossible for granted; 
but when, instead of that early atmosphere, we are 
given the sophisticated air of the eighteenth century, 
we find giants, bleeding statues, ghosts, and talking 
skeletons altogether out of the question. In other 
words, we can not reconcile ourselves to a modern hu- 
man being's living among supernatural beings and 
taking part in supernatural deeds. We can allow the 
Greene Knight to pick up his head and go about his 
business; but if Smith has his head cut off, we demand 
that Smith be out of business for all time. 

CLARA REEVE 

In 1777 Clara Reeve followed Walpole 's model in her 
Champion of Virtue, afterwards called The Old English 
Baro7i. This woman saw the irreconcilable elements in 

264 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

Walpole's Otranto, and in her book allowed the matter 
to go as far as ghosts, but considered them as enough 
of the supernatural — with which opinion doubtless we 
all agree. If, however, we are to take a sip of the 
medicine, we might as well take the whole dose; if we 
must meet a ghost, why not see the magic helmet, hear 
the giant rattle his bones, or have a conversation with 
a statue possessed of too much blood? Moreover, she 
does not prepare us for the supernatural nearly so well 
as does Walpole. Note but one paragraph: " 'God 
defend us!' said Edmund; 'but I verily believe that 
the person that owned this armour lies buried under 
us.' Upon this a dismal hollow groan was heard as if 
from underneath. A solemn silence ensued, and marks 
of fear were visible upon all three ; the groan was thrice 
heard." This is thrust upon us without any merciful 
warning whatever. 

In spite, however, of a certain lack of logic in her 
view-point, Clara Eeeve composed a well-constructed 
piece of fiction — a story that shows the progress of weird 
romance and some elements of the historical romance. 

In the course of these novels the charm of the super- 
natural and purely romantic at length gave way to the 
charm of the supposedly historical. Perhaps the first 
of these historical tales is Sophie Lee's Recess (1783- 
1786), in which the days of Queen Elizabeth are re- 
called and the Earl of Leicester, intriguing with Lady 
Essex, poisons his wife with a dish of carp which she 
had intended for him; and in which various other inci- 
dents overlooked by authentic historians are portrayed 
in high colors. But Sophie Lee was some years ahead 
pf her times, and historical fiction had to wait until the 

265 



ENGLISH FICTION 

so-called Gothic romance had exhausted itself in an 
effort to bring back the weird spirit of a past that never 
existed. 

"vathek" 

William Beckford, author of Vathek, an Arabian 
Tale (1787), in an effort to realize this past, endeavored 
not only to write of it, but also to live in it. He built 
in Wiltshire an immense pile which he called Fonthill 
Abbey, and here, at the age of twenty, among romantic 
environments made to order, wrote in French his 
strange conglomeration of the horrible and the gro- 
tesque. An English schoolmaster, Samuel Henly, trans- 
lated it without the author's knowledge, and it soon 
had a wide reading in England as well as in France. 
Byron declared it far better than Rasselas. It is the 
story of a young prince who indulges in sensuality, and 
who goes with astonishing speed along the primrose 
path that leads to the everlasting bonfire. The fate to 
which the doomed are sentenced is at least quaint, if 
not quite overwhelming. The Hall of Eblis is strewn 
with gold-dust and saffron, and censors burn ambergris 
and aloes, and here the lost, with hearts wi'apped in 
flames, wander up and do^\Ti forever and forever. 
Beckford was capable of some decidedly vivid descrip- 
tions; but altogether the book is shallow, and has not 
at all that wisdom which experience had granted the 
great Doctor Johnson. 

MRS. RADCLIFFE 

Now followed Mrs. Radcliffe, who, between 1789 and 
1797 produced such weird romances as The Castles ofi 

266 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

AtJilen and Dunhayne, the Romance of the Forest and 
The Mysteries of Udolpho. Omitting the ghosts alto- 
gether, she describes in a "ghostly" manner the fears 
and nervous hallucinations of her characters, and then 
explains them by natural causes. The creatures, seem- 
ingly supernatural, turn out to be merely creations of 
a mind in nervous distress, or sometimes real human 
beings. For instance, the heroine, on a dark stormy 
night, may find a musty old manuscript in a chest in 
the gloomy castle ; on reading it she discovers that a 
murder has been committed in this very room; she 
discovers a hidden door bolted on the outside; she goes 
to bed in ner\'Ous dread; far in the night she hears 
the bolt slip back; she sees a figure approach her bed; 
she is frozen with fear ; it is undoubtedly a ghost ; the 
figure gazes for a brief time, and suddenly retires ; it 
is later discovered to be a real man. In her attention 
to plot and environment Mrs. Radcliffe allows her char- 
acters to degenerate into mere types ; but the atmos- 
phere is produced with genuine skill and power. There 
is a blood-curdling horror about it ; we are compelled to 
realize the agony of this lonely woman. Few English- 
speaking writers except Poe have very greatly excelled 
the author in this genius for the weird. 

Using Sicily or Southern France for her setting, and 
thus easily appealing to our sense of the romantic, por- 
traying vividly scenes that she herself never saw, mak- 
ing good use of bewildering corridors, hidden passages, 
haunted churches, and similar romantic machinery, Mrs. 
Radcliffe produced work nothing short of remarkable. 
But when we discover that the supposed ghost is a real 
man, not even her ability can prevent an anticlimax. 

267 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Yet her use of tlie horrible phases and forces of Nature, 
and of the awe-inspiring, her careful preparation for the 
introduction of the supernatural, make great amends for 
such a defect. Note but this passage: 

"From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, 
conducting the travelers into the higher regions of the 
air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen hor- 
rors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the 
mountains. They often paused to contemplate these 
stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where 
only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over 
dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot 
had never wandered, into the glen — so deep that the 
thunder of the torrent which was seen to foam along 
the bottom was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these 
crags rose others of stupendous height and fantastic 
shape ; some shooting into cones ; others impending far 
over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose 
broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, 
trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened 
to bear destruction in its course to the vale. . . . 
The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at 
intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering 
round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing 
high in the air; except when the travelers listened to 
the hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their 
feet." 

It would be beyond the scope of this study to in- 
vestigate in closer detail the progress of Gothic romance, 
and what some critics consider its offshoot, the histor- 
ical romance. We might trace the first through Lewis's 
extravagant Monk, to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, 

268 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

and the second, through a long series of tales, such as 
Ann Fuller's Alan Fitzoshorne (1787) and The Son 
of Ethelwulf (1789) ; James White's Earl Strong- 
low (1789), Historic Tales (1790) and King Richard 
(1791), Clara Reeve's Sir Roger de Clarendon (1793), 
Pownall's Antiquarian Romances (1795), and William 
Godwin's St. Leon (1799), down to Jane Porter's Thad- 
deus of Warsaiv (1803). There is a popular idea that 
Scott evolved the historical romance out of his inner con- 
sciousness ; the fact is, the whole method, manner, and 
purpose had been made clear years before he became the 
incomparable master of the field. 

NOVELS OP PURPOSE 

These forerunners of Scott in the use of the weird 
and historical in romance had been able to see clearly only 
one of the sources of interest that might be found in 
a good novel. To them the supernatural, the ghostly, 
or the superhuman deed of ancient characters was the 
element to be emphasized in arousing horror or an at- 
mosphere of the heroic. To another class of hobby- 
riding fiction-writers of the eighteenth century belonged 
the so-called novelists of purpose. Their efforts were 
generally concentrated on two problems: how man 
should be educated and trained, and how man should 
be governed ; and generally the result of all their specu- 
lations was the "back to nature" scheme so frequently 
reappearing in the history of humanity. 

''fool OF quality" 

The first of the educational or pedagogical novels in 
English seems to have been Henry Brooke's Fool of 

269 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Quality (1766-1770). The author was a gentle, lova- 
ble man, one whom even Pope and Swift thoroughly 
liked and trusted. Married before the age of twenty- 
one, in the course of his married life father of twenty- 
two children, he spent an existence of unending struggle 
against poverty, and died in a remote region of Ire- 
land attended by the only child who had survived. 
Himself denied the comforts of life, he filled his book 
with a dream of wealth and impossible charity. A boy, 
Henry Clinton, the future Earl of Moreland, is carried 
off by a benevolent old fellow, his uncle in disguise, 
and the description of the manner in which the young- 
ster is trained fills a volume, as edited by Charles King- 
sley, of four hundred and twenty-seven pages. King- 
sley declared it one of the greatest novels of the world ; 
John Wesley, in spite of his belief in publishing only 
religious works, had it reprinted for his followers, and 
said it was a volume ' ' the most excellent in its kind that 
I have seen either in the English or any other language 
. . . one of the most beautiful pictures that ever was 
dreamed in the world. ' ' 

All this seems absurd to those of us who in this 
modern day dare to look into the book. The plot is 
so slight as to bring absolutely no interest to the work ; 
the boy, going on errands of mercy to hospitals, asy- 
lums, slums, and similar localities, is very similar to 
the boy we have met in the old-fashioned Sunday-school 
book; the sight of his bestowing his uncle's money most 
liberally on various institutions is rather ridiculous to 
a thoughtful reader. The moralizings and other di- 
gressions are altogether too obstrusive ; some portions 
are utterly impossible. Yet Charles Kingsley, in his 

270 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

enthusiasm, maintains that it contains "deep and grand 
ethics" and ''broad and genial humanity." These 
things might indeed make a worthy volume, but not 
by any means a readable novel; here the ethical pur- 
pose is so direct and apparent that artistic portrayal 
of the ethical ideal is rendered impossible. 

THOMAS DAY 

Thirteen years after the last volume of the Fool of 
Quality had been issued, Thomas Day published an- 
other pedagogical novel in his Sanford and Merton 
(1783-1789). This work, however, was intended not 
only for parents, but for the children, and by means 
of short tales and dialogues endeavored to inspire the 
little ones with an undying enthusiasm for botany, 
geography, sociology, ethnology, and all the other 
''ologies" and "isms" thrust upon the helpless young- 
sters in our own day. Day might be called the literary 
father of the new woman. His heroine was not of the 
* ' clinging-vine ' ' type ; she was robust, took cold plunges, 
and every morning took a jaunt of ten or twelve miles 
in sunshine or rain. She was acquainted, not only with 
domestic science, but literature, mathematics, and "na- 
ture study." It was a direct slap in the face for Rous- 
seau's ideal woman, who was altogether too tender and 
feminine. 

ELIZABETH INCHBALD 

This business of writing a pedagogical treatise under 
the guise of fiction was continued in Elizabeth Inch- 
bald's Simple Story (1791). Mrs. Inchbald was a 
woman of remarkable strength, versatility, and beauty, 

271 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and doubtless the story of her own life would have 
been more interesting than any piece of fiction she 
wrote. Having run away from home to enter upon a 
stage career, she became a popular London actress, mar- 
ried a worthless fellow, and for several years did the 
merest drudgery of the household. Her beauty at- 
tracted many men who hoped to gain her for a mis- 
tress; but their efforts were in vain. ''Last Thurs- 
day," we find her writing, "I finished scouring my 
bed-chamber while a coach with a coronet and two foot- 
men waited at the door to take me an airing." Yet, 
in spite of her slavish labor and her courtships, she 
found time to produce so much literature that in her 
later years she possessed a comfortable income. Her 
Simple Story (1791) and her Nature and Art (1796) 
made her name known in every cultured home of Eng- 
land in her day. Sometimes incorrect in grammar and 
rhetoric, and possessing plots with a will of their 
own, her novels have at times a genuine pathetic 
power, and also, like the work of Miss Edgeworth, the 
admirable virtue of causing us to forget the author in 
our interest in her book. 

The Simple Story is directed against that strange in- 
stitution, the young ladies' boarding school, and Mrs. 
Inchbald spares no pains to make clear the ignorance, 
indolence, and vanity fostered in such places. The hero- 
ine, Miss Milner, with such training, is left to the care 
of a Catholic priest and falls in love with him. He 
becomes Earl of Elmwood, is therefore released from 
his church vows, and of course marries the girl. But, 
with a weakness of character brought about by flabby 
training in childhood, she becomes unfaithful and dies 

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FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

miserably. Her child is sent to one of the father's 
country houses, and is never seen or spoken of by him. 
At length, however, she is carried off by a libertine, and 
the father, suddenly awakening to his duty, rescues 
her, shows his paternal love, and marries her to his 
nephew. All this, be it remembered, happened because 
a girl was sent to a fake educational institution. 

Mrs. Inchbald belongs also to the other group — the 
novelists of protest, or those who endeavor to show 
how men should be governed. Her Nature and Art, 
like Godwin's Caleb Williams, endeavors to show the 
cruelty of the modern social condition, and to portray 
a potentially good man who is made a victim of its un- 
just demands. This fiction revolution against society 
had begun some years before, and was but one of the 
signs of the romantic movement now sweeping on with 
great power. Men were now demanding more rights as 
individuals; democracy was in the air; America had 
struggled into political freedom; the French were mak- 
ing a similar effort ; a civic upheaval seemed to pass over 
the world. The cry of equality and fraternity became 
quite the fashion. 

ROBERT BAGE 

Robert Bage, in such a novel as Barliam Downs 
(1788), was one of the first of these novelists of pro- 
test. In this work we have a defense of a woman who 
has been ruined by a libertine lord. In his Hermsprong 
(1796) we find a picture of an earthly paradise among 
the American Indians, who spend very agreeable and 
innocent lives playing and singing and sleeping in the 
sun. In these works, as well as his James Wallace, 
18 273 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The Fair Syrian, and Mount Henneth, Bage presents 
us with a bountiful supply of political theory, but 
precious little plot; while the upper classes are shown 
as vicious degenerates, and the poor man as the right- 
ful king. 

THOMAS HOLCROFT 

Four years after the appearance of Barhani Downs, 
Thomas Holcroft, another of the London revolutionary 
novelists, displayed his radicalism in Anna St. Ives 
(1792), Here the red flag of anarchy waves defiantly. 
''Everj'thing," he declares "in which government in- 
terferes is spoiled." Property rights were an especial 
abomination to Holcroft. "You maintain that what 
you possess is your own. I affirm that it is the property 
of him who wants it most." Having protested against 
permanent marriages, ranks in the social structure, and 
many other orthodox views, he paints a beautiful pic- 
ture of the times to come when there shall be no per- 
sonal property, when only "agreements" between man 
and woman shall exist, when labor shall be universal, 
but very brief, and when there will be no preachers, 
lawj^ers, judges, and officers of the law; for none will 
be necessary. Holcroft 's Alivyn, Hugh Trevor, and 
Bryan Perdue are of the same character, and doubtless 
brought joy to the enthusiastic group of free thinkers 
writing so zealously in their London home. 

CHARLOTTE SMITH 

Charlotte Smith, another member of the group, ap- 
pears to have been the most prolific novelist of the eight- 
eenth century. For years she practically supported her 

274 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

father's large family by her pen. Following out the 
free-love theory of her revolutionary associates she de- 
scribed in her Desmond (1792) a young fellow's pas- 
sion for another man's wife, a passion, however, which 
was not wild and unregulated, but exceedingly well 
trained and generous. Luckily the husband becomes 
a sot and is killed, and the widow, having very de- 
cently waited a year, marries her lover. The author 
followed this work with what is probably the best known 
of her stories, The Old Manor House (1793), where 
once more, as in Bage's Hertnsprong, we are shown an 
earthly paradise, the chief characteristics of which seem 
to be exceedingly inexpensive costumes, freedom from con- 
ventionalities and law, and a sort of year-round picnic 
with plenty of dancing and singing. 

"CALEB WILLIAMS" 

Of all this group William Godwin is the most famous 
and the most influential writer. Before undertaking 
fiction he had written much, but without pronounced 
originality, upon sociological themes. Malthus had at- 
tacked and completely demolished his theories, and by 
those who were not particularly enthusiastic towards 
socialism, he w^as looked upon as rather shallow. We 
are not surprised to find, therefore, a conspicuous lack 
of originality in his novels. His plots lack the con- 
nected effect of a good narrative; his theories become 
altogether too prominent; he rides his hobby until it is 
jaded. 

Magazine editors sometimes declare that every man 
has at least one good story in hini. Caleb Williams 
(1794) may have been Godwin's one story. As the 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

first detective story in the English language, and pos- 
sessing much of the character of the Gothic romance, it 
had great possibilities for becoming a genuine master- 
piece; but the suggestive plot is rendered weak by the 
author's lack of concentrative artistic power. It is a 
story written to show how man becomes the destroyer 
of man ; how society with its tyrannical conventionalities 
makes men its victims, and transforms them to villains or 
moral and mental wrecks. Falkland, a man of high 
family, guarding his honor from stain, stabs his enemy, 
Tyrrel, at night. Two innocent men are executed for 
the crime ; Falkland, more from fear of disgrace than 
of death, remains silent. Henceforth his every thought 
is given to guarding the secret. Caleb Williams, his 
secretary, discovers it, however, but promises never to 
reveal it. But when Caleb wishes to change positions, 
Falkland objects, and has him arrested and impris- 
oned for robbery. The young martyr escapes, but is 
pursued by Falkland's servants, and, thus driven to 
despair, reveals his employer's crime, and compels 
Falkland to confess. Thus the present social structure, 
thinks Godwin, makes fools or knaves of us all. 

The story was a great success in the closing years of 
the eighteenth century, and Byron's threat to his wife 
that he would treat her as Falkland had treated Caleb 
Williams, revived the interest in the work in the earlier 
nineteenth century. But to us of to-day there appear so 
many weak points in the tale that in not a few pages 
it seems utterly ridiculous. No good cause is given for 
Tyrrel's hatred; Caleb finds out the secret with en- 
tirely too much ease ; we consider Caleb a fool for being 
persecuted to such an extent. Moreover, the characters 

276 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

are not vividly living personalities; we care little 
whether they flourish or suffer. And yet Hazlitt de- 
clares that Caled and Godwin's other famous novel 
St. Leon (1799) are "two of the most splendid and im- 
pressive works of the imagination" composed in their 
time. But Hazlitt 's critical judgment was biased by 
his enthusiasm for Godwin's sociological views. God- 
win and Mary Wollstonecraft were devout prophets of 
a future golden age ; Godwin longing for and foreseeing 
a period when men would be so perfect that anarchy, 
or absolute lack of law, would be possible, and Mary 
Wollstonecraft seeing a day when women would be free 
from all shackles. Both may have been equally in ear- 
nest ; but neither one was quite fitted to write a master- 
piece of fiction. 

Thus the hobby-riding continued into the new cen- 
tury. It showed indeed one very commendable trait al- 
most absent from English society in the days when Rich- 
ardson was writing Pamela: men and women had at last 
come to desire some ideal state far removed from the 
mere passions of the flesh and the power gained by 
brute force. But the novel was not, and perhaps is 
not yet the instrument for such theories, admirable as 
they may be ; and with the coming of Jane Porter and 
Sir Walter Scott the use of fiction for such a purpose 
waned to a great extent. But, in another direction 
these lofty desires found a far nobler expression; Shel- 
ley's Revolt of Islam, Alastor, and Prometheus Unbound, 
and the fervid eloquence of Byron uttered with far 
more grandeur what these novelists had falteringly 
stammered forth. 



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ENGLISH FICTION 

HENRY MACKENZIE 

Fiction portraying manners and customs had now 
long been popular in England. Mrs. Manley and Mrs. 
Behn had written just such books, of the foul sort, how- 
ever, near the close of the seventeenth century ; Defoe 
had appealed to the same curiosity in his Plague Year; 
Addison and Steele had made much of it in the Sir 
Roger de Coverley Papers; Richardson had shown man- 
ners incidentally in Pamela; Tom Jones is a treasury for 
eighteenth-century rural manners; Laurence Sterne had 
shown, not only the manners, but the mannerisms of 
certain eighteenth-century individuals. After these 
greater figures had passed away, their imitators lingered 
long. Some, such as Griffith, the author of Koran 
(1770), were exceedingly uninspired and dull; some, 
like Henry Mackenzie, author of the most sentimental 
novel in the language. The Man of Feeling (1771) , caused 
their characters to do more posing than even those of 
Sterne. The hero in the last-named work is full of 
nerves, is always on the verge of collapsing, and is 
liable to die at any moment. He is so shy that he can 
not confess his love until he is bedfast, and when his 
lady accepts him, he dies of the shock. The plot is nil; 
it is but fragments of a manuscript which had been used 
by a sportsman preacher for gun- wadding; its tattered 
condition is very suggestive of the hero's nervous sys- 
tem. The story has, however, some excellent traits; it 
is refined, it perceives the good as vividly as the bad; 
Mackenzie, like Addison, prefers to teach by ideals. 
Then, too, the influence of environment on a sensitive 
man is rather subtly traced. 

278 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

This novel, as well as Mackenzie's next one, The Man 
of the World, is related to the revolutionary fiction 
in that it is a protest against certain traits of society. 
In the second novel Sir Thomas Sindall, a resolute ras- 
cal, labors harder to seduce a woman than most men 
would to gain a fortune. Apparently he has very little 
real passion; but his whole pleasure lies in making the 
conquest. He teaches the girl's brother to gamble in 
order that he may ruin him and thus get him out of 
the way. The brother at length robs another gambler 
and is transported for twelve years. The sister is 
drugged and ruined by the young aristocrat; her child 
is given to a nurse and is supposed to have been drowned. 
Harriet, the sister, dies, and her father soon follows her. 
Years later the libertine brings back from the Conti- 
nent a young lady committed to his care, and is about 
to ruin her when the nurse informs him that it is his 
own child. The brother returns from his penal exile and 
kills the libertine. The plot may be repulsive ; but there 
is no coarseness in it. Vice is condemned and no scene 
is written for the sake of mere rudeness. There is real 
pathos in some pages of this as well as in Mackenzie's 
third story, Julia de Rouhigne, which, according to Scott, 
is one of "the most heart-wringing histories." 

Some of these novels of manners were maliciously 
written to ridicule the eccentricities of certain classes. 
Graves's Spiritual Quixote is a bitter fling at the Metho- 
dists — a miserable imitation of Don Quixote, in which 
the "hero," Geoffrey Wildgoose, reads such Puritanical 
books as Crumbs of Comfort, Honeycombs for the Elect, 
and Spiritual Eyesalve and Cordials for Saints, and then 
goes forth to convert the sinful British. Other novel- 

279 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ists of this type, however, like Eichard Cumberland, the 
dramatist, author of Henry (1795), simply tried to make 
a readjustment of such boisterous characters as Tom 
Jones to the milder, more moral conditions of the closing 
years of the century, and thus drew contrasts which are 
useful in our efforts ,to estimate the changes that had 
taken place. 

MISS BUENEY 

Of all these novelists of manners, doubtless two 
women, Fanny Burney and Miss Edgeworth, were the 
most successful. Fanny Burney was the daughter of a 
Norfolk organist and historian of music, to whose home 
came Johnson, the Thrales, Garrick, and other promi- 
nent people of her day. She had a talent for recording 
her impressions of men and women, and at the age of 
fifteen or sixteen collected these thoughts and pictures 
into a novel entitled Caroline Evelyn. She was con- 
stantly hampered, however, by a Jealous step-mother, 
and went through the distressing ordeal of seeing the 
woman burn the manuscript of this youthful story. 
The chief points of the tale were still in her memory, 
and in later days she began her first published novel, 
Evelina, or the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into 
the World (1778), where the destroyed manuscript had 
left off. This novel was published anonymously; even 
the publishers could not for some time discover the au- 
thor ; but when the secret was revealed the young author- 
ess sprang into great fame. 

Macaulay states that Miss Burney wrote admirably 
clean books, and so she did — for the eighteenth century. 
But oaths, rough and vulgar talk, horse play and con- 

280 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

versations of a rather familiar character are by no means 
absent. The book, dealing with the ideals, ideas, emo- 
tions, and difficulties that come to a refined, ambitious 
girl just entering womanhood, tells the story of Evelina, 
who, having been reared in a fashionable family, is ma- 
liciously harassed by her low relatives, and is almost pre- 
vented from marrying a nobleman because of their con- 
stant obtrusiveness. Thus we gain one of the best 
descriptions of eighteenth-century society to be found in 
fiction ; for we get views of every plane of the social life 
from the highest to the humblest. Moreover, the story 
is interesting as a story. The plot moves smoothly and 
is a woven fabric, and not a patchwork. Every leading 
character in it is a real personality, and is delineated 
with a woman's eye for details and persistent concen- 
tration. 

In both Evelina and Cecilia (1782) Miss Bumey shows 
the new moral and social conditions that have entered. 
The old bullies and reckless libertines are no longer 
plentiful; but now appears in their place a "smart set" 
afflicted with ennui, superciliousness, and empty-head- 
edness. Men do not shine in these books; a woman is 
writing for other women, and, in inspecting closely the 
male sex, fails to find in it anything prominently celes- 
tial or divine. The author is at times caustic; she 
takes delight in showing the glossy varnish of low po- 
liteness; with a touch of Thackeray's cynicism she pic- 
tures the vanities of the upper set with a rather merciless 
hand. 

Miss Bumey 's third novel, Camilla, is scarcely ever 
glanced at in our day; her Diary and Letters, written 
after she became Madame d'Arblay in 1793, have almost 

281 



• ENGLISH FICTION 

suffered the same fate ; but her first two novels have 
had an undoubted influence upon such writers as Jane 
Austen, Benjamin Disraeli, Bulwer-Lytton, and, pos- 
sibly, Scott. 

MARIA EDGEWORTH 

Maria Edgeworth was another novelist influenced by 
the Burney fiction. Her stories of both English and 
Irish life are vivid pieces of descriptions of manners, 
customs, and national characteristics, and cause her to 
be considered something of a prophecy of Scott and 
Samuel Lover. Having lived for some time in the heart 
of Ireland, she was able to look upon England from the 
Irishman's standpoint, and in such tales as The Ab- 
sentee, found in her Fashionable Tales, or her novel, 
Castle Backrent, we have the peasant life of Erin shown 
with a sympathy found nowhere in English literature 
before her day. Castle Backrent shows the wit, the hu- 
mor, the sentiment, the pathos, the sturdiness of the 
Irishman in his own castle. The Irish in alien lands 
had been used before this for purposes of ridicule; but 
never before had the Irish knight, brave with Celtic 
rashness and Irish whisky, been made an object of ad- 
miration or sympathetic laughter. Here was humor 
created by truth. As we read we cease to wonder why 
Waverley has sometimes been called, "the Castle Rack- 
rent of Scotland." 

Miss Edgeworth's Belinda (1801) has to do, for the 
most part, with the familiar aristocratic life of London, 
and, while the descriptions are not immoral, they cer- 
tainly are suggestive. There are good-for-nothing hus- 
bands and wives who go out for eighteenth-century 

282 



FICTION OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 

"joy rides" and who flirt outrageously. There are 
reconciliations or violent separations — the latter accom- 
panied by the thump of the trunk being hauled down- 
stairs by the porter, while we expect the departing wife 
to shout in sternly dramatic tones, "Farewell — for- 
ever!" Miss Edgeworth has a didactic purpose in 
thrusting a young lady from the rural districts into 
such a circle. If her education has been correct — that 
is, not obtained at a boarding school — she will live an 
untainted life, and at length achieve victory by captur- 
ing a husband ; otherwise she will become a flirt and sink 
into vice. 

With all this, be it remembered, is a positive genius 
for description. Miss Edgeworth 's influence can be 
traced in the works of such writers as Scott, Charles 
Reade, Samuel Lover, and, to some extent, with Miss 
Burney, in those masterly pictures of society — the 
stories of Jane Austen, 



283 



CHAPTER VII 

Nineteenth- Century Fiction 

social and literary conditions 

The many tokens of an industrial, economic, religions, 
and intellectual awakening coming with the nineteenth 
century are too well known to need a fresh enumera- 
tion in this study. The formerly impossible became the 
modem commonplace; the miraculous ceased to be won- 
derful; the dreams of medieval romances became the 
matter-of-fact inventions of modern genius. It is 
doubtful whether any thousand years of the world's 
history, with the possible exception of the Renaissance 
period, equaled this one century in marvelous changes. 
A new enthusiasm seemed to enter the heart of hu- 
manity; a wider belief, a more fervent zeal, a nobler 
conception of man and his God. Science and Democ- 
racy compelled social and religious changes that caused 
the world to progress by leaps and bounds. The na- 
tions came to know one another as never before; the 
comforts of life reached the masses in a manner never 
seen in previous eras; the luxuries of the past became 
the necessities of the day. 

But with these advances appeared many dangerous 
tendencies. Science shook the very foundations of 
creeds, and compelled them to rebuild or fall in ruins. 
The broadening of educational advantages granted more 

284 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

thought to the masses, and the result was a demand 
for rights that shook the social structure of the nations. 
The invention of machinery, while making food, cloth- 
ing, and numerous necessities much more plentiful, 
made different classes of laborers far more dependent 
upon one another, and the sufferings of the one class 
affected all others. The inevitable result was a fervent 
recognition of the brotherhood existing among workers 
and a realization of their vast power in the affairs of the 
world. Never, therefore, has man in any other age seen 
such tremendous labor agitations, such startling social 
upheavals, such dangerous abruptness of change as in 
the nineteenth century. 

The fiction, the essay, the poetry of the century, of 
course, reflected these momentous facts. In the early 
days of the period poetry was the medium of expression, 
and the poets cried out in a voice of revolution seldom 
excelled in any literature of any other day. Toward the 
middle of the century the essay and the novel seem to 
have rivaled each other in expressing the desires of 
vexed humanity ; while in the later years of the century 
the novel far surpassed the poem and the essay in bring- 
ing home to the people the vital problems of humanity. 

Of course, under such strenuous conditions, fiction 
could not remain purely romantic. The picture of ac- 
tual, modern-day life was demanded; the sufferings, 
longings, and ambitions of the under classes cried for 
expression; the pretensions and wrongs of social dis- 
tinctions had to be exposed. It was a challenge to the 
realist, and he answered it. True, one of the first writ- 
ers of the century, and perhaps the most famous of 
them all, Sir Walter Scott, was a romanticist; but on 

285 



ENGLISH FICTION 

the other hand it is significant that the very first nov- 
elist of fame in the century, Jane Austen, was a realist 
pure and simple. In her footsteps came a host of pho- 
tographic observers, some of whom laid bare the social 
body with cold impersonality, and others with bitterness 
and anguish. 

JANE AUSTEN 

It requires genuine genius to make the commonplace 
interesting. Jane Austen (1775-1817), possessing just 
such genius, did more; she showed the superlative im- 
portance of the conmionplace. We all have heard Scott's 
hearty praise of her work: "The big bow-wow strain 
I can do mj^self like any now going; but the exquisite 
touch Avhich rendere ordinary, commonplace things and 
characters interesting, from the truth of the description 
and the sentiment, is denied to me." This is a true 
criticism. Hers is the calm, attentive, delicate work of 
a diamond cutter. With keen photographic observation 
she put before the English people their own undeniably 
"average" middle classes with all their adoration for 
the conventional, their primness, their divine belief in 
blue blood, their veneration for tradition. No violent 
upheavals enter into these pictures of rural life; 
scarcely ever is there any height of passion; the plots 
progress with a quietness eminently befitting the quiet 
souls that move so primly through them. This is in- 
deed the beginning of nineteenth-century English real- 
ism. 

Jane Austen's father was a clergyman in Southern 
England, and her view of the world scarcely ever went 
beyond the narrow confines of that section. She knew 

286 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

little of the larger movements and wilder excitements 
of the life of eitj^ or Continent; she herself was so 
modest and retiring as to object to having her name 
on the title pages of her books ; the greed for gain was so 
utterly absent from her nature that she was satisfied 
with exceedingly small payments; altogether extreme- 
ness in anything — except modesty — seems to have been 
disgusting to her. Perhaps, after all, her greatest mas- 
sage to the nineteenth century is the message of com- 
mon sense. That she belongs to the century at all is due 
to her lack of that very impulsiveness and haste which 
was so characteristic of the period; for her books, 
written years before their publication, belong, properly, 
to the period closing with 1800. Pride and Prejudice, 
published in 1813, was written probably in 1796 ; Sense 
and Sensihilitij, appearing in 1811, was written in 1797; 
Northanger Ahley, printed in 1817, was written as 
early as 1798. But we must date a novel's influence 
from the day of its appearance in type, and the influ- 
ence of Jane Austen's work belongs distinctly to the 
nineteenth century. 

The novelists of the century may be pretty clearly 
divided into romanticists and realists. Scott undoubt- 
edly fathered the former, and Jane Austen "mothered" 
the latter. Her Northanger Ahhey is a mild protest, 
almost in the form of a burlesque, against the romantic 
fiction of her young days — the fiction of the Gothic type. 
Catherine Morland, the heroine, is simply an average 
girl who, after reading many weird accounts of ghostly, 
romantic castles, goes on a visit to Northanger Abbey, 
which, to her disappointment, she finds a very pleasant 
and convenient home. There is a delicate, subtle, and 

287 



ENGLISH FICTION 

quiet irony in such a story — an irony that is present in 
almost every page of Jane Austen 's work. She may have 
felt as keenly as Charles Dickens; but restraint was 
bred in her blood, and both his broad, bitter portrayals 
and Scott's huge sympathy were foreign to her well- 
schooled nature. 

Sense and Sensibility is just as quietly ironical. Of 
the two sisters dealt with in this story, one is thoroughly 
sane and guided by sensible reflections; the other 
fondles pain and misery, and possesses all that "roman- 
tic temperament" so characteristic of Gothic heroines. 
And lo! Jane Austen thoroughly cures her by causing 
her to be jilted and then marries he^ off to a man old 
enough to be her father. Casting aside the hysterics 
of the later eighteenth-century novelists, abjuring the 
lengthy moralizing of Richardson, despising the open 
coarseness of Smollett and the dirty suggestiveness of 
Sterne, this* author, telling of nothing wonderful, and 
describing people that might be seen along any byway, 
became, nevertheless, a social critic of such astuteness 
that her equals in the succeeding hundred years have 
been but rarely found. 

Of course intensity of action is not to be expected; 
indeed to many readers intensity of interest is lacking. 
To those, however, who read between the lines there is 
revealed a story of the inner life told by means of the 
outer manners. Here are people tyrannized by respect- 
ability. They have the happy faculty of having nothing 
to do. With some little money and soipe quantity of 
thin "blue blood," they dare not undertake the original, 
but spend their days in drinking weak tea, going to 
church, and sewing for the poor, whom, fortunately, they 

288 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

have with them always. Scarcely ever do they deviate 
into crime and misery; when perchance they do, their 
villainy is quickly covered over and silenced lest a 
stain be placed upon the ''respectability" of the family 
name. Certain British middle-class ideals are upheld 
with quiet but persistent reverence: a woman ought to 
marry a man with an income ; nobody should let a hobby 
run away with him ; the upper classes should not become 
so lazy as to neglect their estates; train the young for 
a certain rank, and they will be happy in it; let every 
man or woman attend to his or her own business. 

With a touch of sarcasm, with an almost perfect 
technique, with a smooth and never turbulent art, these 
lessons are impressed — but never pressed — upon the 
reader. Some of Scott's novels bear a resemblance to 
the huge tragedies of Shakespeare; Jane Austen's 
stories of social manners easily lend themselves to a 
comparison with some of the lighter comedies of the 
great master. This woman pioneer in realism may 
bring a couple together, create misunderstandings be- 
tween them, arouse in them a positive dislike for each 
other, and then, at the proper moment, bring them to- 
gether again for the disillusioning, the gradual destruc- 
tion of prejudice, and the growth of mutual understand- 
ing, admiration, and love. Such a course of events 
requires for adequate exposition a genius for analysis 
and introspection. It is doubtful whether any other 
English novelist before her day, with the possible ex- 
ception of Richardson, equaled her in such genius. To 
some readers it all may seem like describing an anthill 
with laborious minuteness ; it may seem, too, that all the 
poetry and romance of life are brushed aside in such 
19 289 



ENGLISH FICTION 

a process ; this sticking so closely to the common rounds 
of daily life may seem at times positively earthy. More 
than traces of these taints may be found in the work of 
Jane Austen. Her dry, caustic irony oftentimes con- 
ceals what might have been romance. She does not 
often touch the sublime and the beautiful. She does 
shut out much of heaven with a little earth. But, then, 
art, if it desires, has a perfect right to show the truth, 
the unvarnished truth, and nothing but the truth, and 
this right Jane Austen has chosen to assume. 

There is a certain inevitableness about much of her 
fiction. Indeed we can almost discern a fixed formula. 
If A meets B under certain conditions A and B will ap- 
parently not agree; but if A and B meet after certain 
changes A and B will agree and fall in love. Miss 
Austen manipulates the environments, and the charac- 
ters do the rest. After all, how vivid these characters 
become, and with how few descriptive touches ! They 
drink tea and play cards and go to church and meet at 
receptions and talk — talk a great deal — and in a short 
time we come to know them intimately. They are not 
pushed upon us; they grow gradually into our ken. 
Scott, Dickens, and even George Eliot often awkwardly 
shove their new figures into our company ; Jane Austen 
comes much closer to the French conception of allowing 
these beings to grow before us and show themselves 
through themselves. 

In her later works, Mansfield Park (1814), Emma 
(1816), and Persuasion (1818), we find a deeper tone, 
more moralizing and reflections on the mysteries of life, 
more noting of the effect of scenery, more introductions 
of outside characters brought forward simply for the 

290 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

sake of making the picture more lifelike. In short, her 
view of life was slowly broadening; her inbred restraint 
was breaking down. But had she lived a hundred years, 
and had she written scores of novels, she could not have 
set herself free from that early training, modesty, aris- 
tocratic reserve, and slightly condescending cynicism. 

As has been intimated, conversation is a most con- 
venient vehicle for her jjlots. Every conversation 
throws some new ray of light on a character or a situ- 
ation, and almost without our notice, affairs move right 
along. Her style exhibits the sort of skill expected of 
such a woman. Word economy — a sort of economy un- 
known to eighteenth-century novelists — gives her sen- 
tences a precision and a snap not to be found in Scott. 
Again, unlike Richard.son, Fielding, Scott, and Dickens, 
she refuses to be tempted aside for long by any call to 
preach, philosophize, or grow .sentimental over scenery 
or old-time easterns. She is as much afraid of the vio- 
lently pathetic as of the boisteroasly humoroas. Like 
a true realist, she calculates with nicety the true valu- 
ation and effect of every item, and with her, exaggeration 
is impossible. 

What did this remarkable woman teach the novelists 
of her century? She showed more emphatically than 
any other writer since Richardson the potential import- 
ance of the passing thought,, the barely suggested hint, 
the petty deed. She displayed a masterly power in 
revealing the inner being by the every-day doings of 
the outer being. She set forth clearly the theory that 
the realist, by his very truthfulness, becomes something 
of a social critic. She attacked petty prejudice, arti- 
ficial distinctions, the tyranny of tradition, the selfish- 

291 



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ness of certain types of humanity, and the worldliaess 
of others, with a mild irony fuUy as irritating as the 
bold pictures of Dickens or the keen satire of Thackeray. 
She lacked what all realists are in danger of lacking — 
a comprehension of the poetry that actually exists 
amidst the sordidness of humanity, and which, after all, 
redeems life and keeps the soul sweet and sane. 

SIB WALTER SCOTT 

It is popular to-day to exercise a bit of condescen- 
sion towards Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) — especially 
on the part of those whose hobby is psychology. It is 
very true that Scott deals but sparingly in this modern 
science; his forte is strong, vigorous, healthy, normal, 
physical life — the sort of life that exists only through 
morality, and doubtless he would have considered some 
of our modern psychological problem-fiction nothing 
short of scandalous. Undoubtedly he had various other 
defects as a literary artist. Indeed, at some time or 
other he may have broken every canon of literary art. 
His characters come upon us abruptly: he describes 
them instead of letting them describe themselves. He 
succumbs to the dangerous temptation of stopping to 
talk about all sorts of extraneous matters. He handles 
so many characters that he even forgets he has killed 
some of them, and nonchalantly brings them back to 
carry on further adventures. However, some of the 
characters of modem fiction are dead from the begin- 
ning, and neither they nor their authors have "psy- 
chology" enough to discover it. Scott himself ad- 
mitted various other weaknesses. He confessed that he 
could not build his stories to a graduated scale and 

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XIXETEEXTH-CEXTURY FICTION 

allow them to evolve smoothlv and logically. Many of 
his scenes are indeed "unlabored" and ""loosely pnt 
together. " As he himself says, he has a habit of ' * hud- 
dling up" his conclusions. In style he is at times pos- 
itively incorrect in b<Dth grammar and rhetoric. These 
taints, it would seem, should damn any author fop time 
and eternity. 

What, then, makes him survive ? The reasons for his 
survival are far more numerous than the reasons for 
his literary death. His spontaneity is exhilarating. His 
characters may oftentimes be simply strong, healthy 
youngsters, and the stories may frequently carry them 
along, and not they the stories. But despite this lack 
of subtlety, his own vigorous interest is infectious. By 
means of sheer virility he compels us to follow him in 
hot and hasty pursuit. This is all the more remarkable 
when we consider the diffuseness of his work. Every 
living mortal has innumerable strings of attachment to 
the life about him : even his cook and his tailor influence 
his character. It is far wiser, therefore, in telling his 
story, to set him free from all but the most important 
attachments, and view him as influenced by particular 
tendencies in his environment. This Scott does not al- 
ways do, and the result is huge and sometimes confused 
pictures of life. And yet, amidst a multitude of actions 
and currents of life, he carries us along with remark- 
able intensity, and causes the hero 's career to be almost 
a matter of life and death with us. 

Human nature and virility — ^these are two saving 
graces in Scott's novels. His knowledge of the past 
and his knowledge of the men walking the Scottish 
borders with him, give him the tone of one who is as- 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

sured of his facts, and this, assuredly, adds to the 
comfort of the reader. Few men, moreover, either as 
authors or men, have been more frank and lovable. 
Few have held before their readers such noble ideals 
of real manhood. His pictures of life and his portrayal 
of historical figures may not be altogether correct — ex- 
treme accuracy is neither to be expected nor desired — 
but that he creates the proper atmosphere can scarcely 
be doubted. Many a man has gained a better concep- 
tion of the evolution of British life from his Shake- 
speare and Scott than from any number of accurately 
A^Titten treatises on history. Old Mortality (1816), 
dealing with the Covenanters, Woodstock (1826), illus- 
trating the difference between the Cavalier and the 
Puritan, Ivanlioe (1820), portraying the days of Eich- 
ard I, doubtless could not endure the microscopic in- 
vestigations of the specialist; but surely thej^ show with 
admirable impress! veness the larger spirit of the times 
with which they deal. 

Scott admired and loved the clash of life, the fair, 
open, vigorous fight, whether between individuals or 
social classes. And since few men of the nineteenth 
century have possessed a more intimate knoM^ledge of 
a multitude of social planes, the result is a vast array 
of material with which to work — magic, feuds, Scotch 
home life, chivalry, duels, courtships, feasts, religious 
controversies, forest life, roadside traditions, supersti- 
tions, what not. Before his day Scotland was very little 
known ; since his day it has been a charmed land. 

It has been declared that Scott set back realism a 
half-century; but this doubtless is an exaggerated 
statement. He mingled weirdness, realism, romanti- 

294 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

cism, the sordid, the ideal, anything that served his pur- 
pose. He drew upon superstition, criminology , the 
picaresque, the Gothic; he used the ghosts in the tum- 
bled-dowTi castles, the spirits of the hills, the demons 
of the forests ; he seemingly laughed theories and formu- 
lators of theories to scorn. In the creation of his char- 
acters he is either realistic or romantic as the theme or 
setting requires. As a general rule, in dealing with the 
lower classes, he is realistic ; but when dealing with the 
upper classes he oftentimes allows his romantic temper- 
ament to run away with him. Some of his creatures 
are decidedly realistic personifications of Scotch fanati- 
cism; others, such as Fergus Maclvor and his sister 
Flora, are idealistic personifications of the higher traits 
of the national life. His bandits are scarcely ever 
the seventeenth-century importations from Spain and 
Italy, but are simply average or below-average men, 
hiding in the mountain fastnesses or frequenting the 
low seamen's resorts. ]\Iany of his figures are of the con- 
ventional sort — brave, strong lovers, or beautiful, tender 
women. 

It is not, therefore, a just criticism to consider Scott 
as an enemy of realism and an unswerving devotee of 
romanticism. He was a lover of the old and far off, 
and undoubtedly he idealized some phases of the past — 
but by no means all. "With a few historical characters 
in the background, and his own imaginary figures at the 
front of the stage, he could create a fascinating atmos- 
phere in which his invented creatures move with veri- 
similitude. 

Taine, it would seem, has somewhat missed the mark 
when he says of this very matter of Scott's use of the 

295 



ENGLISH FICTION 

spirit of an age: "Costumes, scenery, externals alone 
are exact ; actions, speech, sentiments, all the rest is 
civilized, embellished, arranged in modern guise." 
Surely Ivanhoe, Old Mortality, The Talisman, a score of 
others, have captured something of the "actions" and 
"sentiment," if nothing else, of a past long since dead. 
Such ever-famous scenes as the tournament in Ivanhoe, 
when the Disinherited Knight overcomes all adversaries, 
and the sword scene in The Talisman, where Richard's 
mighty blade is tested beside the Saladin 's slender scim- 
itar — such scenes retain their fame because, better than 
many tomes of history, they apparently have captured 
the spirit of an epoch, Scott had a keen eye for those 
effective combinations or contrasts that could present 
vividly the conflict between two opposing forces, parties, 
or races. That sword scene in the Saladin 's tent and 
that tournament where Anglo-Saxon and Norman burn 
with jealousy have their value as sociological studies as 
well as for their rare descriptive art, 

Taine, perhaps truly, says of Scott's characters: 
"Select heroines . . . always touching but above 
all correct; young gentlemen, Evandale, Morton, Ivan- 
hoe, irreproachably brought up, tender and grave, even 
slightly melancholic . . . and worthy to lead them 
to the altar. Is there a man more suited than the au- 
thor to compose such a spectacle? He is a good Prot- 
estant, a good husband, a good father, very moral, so 
decided a Tory that he carries off as a relic a glass from 
which the king has just drunk. In addition he has 
neither talent nor leisure to reach the depth of his 
characters." This Frenchman should have remembered, 
however, that the British of the nineteenth century de- 

296 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

manded morality in their heroes and heroines; that the 
Anglo-Saxons have always demanded that their art and 
literature contribute to the moral welfare of mankind; 
and that Scott, rather fortunately, chose to answer this 
demand. Of course, this of necessity made his pictures 
of the past incomplete in so far as they were mainly 
idealistic ; no author in these days could afford to revive 
the vulgarity, the sins of the flesh, the deep injustice, 
the ferocious cruelty of the centuries that are gone. All 
critics must admit, however, that Scott did not ''reach 
the depth of his characters." Ivanhoe might desire 
Rebecca rather than Rowena; but the process of his 
reasoning and the distress through which he might have 
gone to reach a conquest over this desire are matters 
overlooked by Scott. Doubtless, deep in his heart, Scott 
considered the story itself much more interesting than 
the characters around which it moved. 

As Masson has pointed out,^ the one Scotch trait 
thoroughly lacking in this novelist was the metaphysical. 
He was neither speculative nor philosophical. This 
forever prevented him from portraying such master 
souls as Shakespeare has created in Hamlet and Mac- 
tetli. We could tell most clearly what his heroes 
looked like; we could recognize them among millions; 
but the "inner man" is not revealed. This may also 
be the reason why he was never highly successful in pre- 
senting a thoroughly convincing picture of a great his- 
torical personage. Where he does succeed, undeniably, 
is in the more difficult and more important picturing 
of the general soul of an age or of a people ; in short, in 
the excellence of his ''social pictures." "From Ivan- 

1 British Novelists, p. 207. 

297 



ENGLISH FICTION 

hoe to Edie Ochiltree, from Lucy Ashton to Jeanie 
Deans, from the knightly achievements of the Crusade 
to the humours of the Scottish peasantiy — ^this is the 
panorama he reveals, and he casts over it the light of his 
generous, gentle, and delicate nature." - Yet, let us not 
gain the impression that these character portrayals are 
false because not deep. "What a gathering of figures in 
this mass of romance — ^hundreds of them ! IMeg Mer- 
rilies. Dominie Sampson, the Antiquary, INIadge Wild- 
fire, Effie Deans, Jeanie — if all might be placed before 
us in one jostling, rough, hearty, shrewd, "eannie" 
crowd, we should be impelled to exclaim, "This is in- 
deed Scotland!" 

Scott's novels are great in general grasp and vision 
and not in detail. He was verbose and tautologous ; 
he so loved the mere telling of the story that he pre- 
ferred to linger over the picture of the hero or event 
rather than to write the all-embracing adjective. Yet 
difl^ise as he may be, his plots, vast in their material, 
move steadily onward. Note this in the Heart of Mid- 
lothian. The riot, the passion of the Edinburgh multi- 
tude, the stir and bustle of a momentous hour in a great 
city, — these are put before us; episode after episode is 
presented with astonishing vigor — episodes that almost 
appear to have been written for their own power of 
arousing interest in themselves — and yet through it all 
Scott centers our attention on Eflfie Deans, and not 
once may we declare the plot clogged. This book alone 
would prove Scott's masterly gi'asp over a mass of ma- 
terial and an array of actors that might well dismay the 
best of our more artistic modem novelists. 

2 Raleigh: English Novel, p. 283. 

298 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

The plot of this work, as of the others, falls short, 
of course, of being ideal. Scott is not satisfied with 
reaching a climax ; he must go on for pure joy of creat- 
ing. After the thirty-seventh chapter, when Jeanie 
Deans obtains favor with the queen, our interest in the 
plot itself may begin to decrease ; but our interest in 
the remaining pictures is by no means ended. Scott 
knew that he had a leisurely audience; it enjoyed the 
sustained characterization of those concluding chap- 
ters; above all else, it found interest in those vivid 
pictures of ancient days. And who, except the critic 
who cannot forget for a moment the rhetorical rules of 
unity and coherence, does not yet find the same interest 
and pleasure? Here, in this fine blending of the poet 
and the historian, is love of the old for its own sake. A 
few years before Scott's time Johnson had declared any 
man a fool who wrote from any other motive than 
mriney-making ; Scott would have written of the antique 
had never a penny resulted. His chief joy seemed to be 
to repeat, to relate, to revive the past. Concerning that 
love for the ancient, hear his own words : 

"But show me an old castle or a field of battle, and 
I was at home at once, filled it with its combatants in 
their proper costume, and overwhelmed my hearers by 
the enthusiasm of my dascription. In crossing Magus 
!Moor, near St. Andrews, the spirit moved me to give a 
picture of the assassination of the Archbishop of St. 
Andrews to some fellow-travelers, . . . and one of 
them, though well acquainted with the story, protested 
my narrative had frightened away his night's sleep. "^ 

Unlike many British of his own day and ours, he 

3 Lockhart's Life; Autobiography, I, p. 62. 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

could imagine that there might possibly be some other 
age, people, or code of life and ethics better than those 
of Britain in his own time. He therefore steeped his 
imagination in the atmosphere of other days and other 
scenes in a manner imitated with but great difficulty 
and small success by many of his fellow writers. 

With the coming of the Romantic Movement, there 
came also a contest between prose fiction and poetry. 
Poetry might well claim the realm of romance ; it might 
well claim *'the light that never was on land or sea." 
But prose fiction won because it might dare to do that 
which would have destroyed the poetic atmosphere of 
poetry : the mingling of humor and intense realism with 
the loftiest romantic themes. Set that valiant tourna- 
ment scene of Ivanhoe beside the fish-market scene in 
The Aiitiquary; such a contrast would be impossible in 
a volume of true poetry. Thus Scott, when he gave up 
the song and ballad for the less artistic prose tale, en- 
larged his freedom and gave his genius the power to 
portray with equal truth the homely and the ideal. 

What, then, were the effects of that long series of 
prose tales beginning in 1814 and ending in 1831? By 
his wholesomeness Scott gave the English novel a re- 
spectability it had never enjoyed before. He scarcely 
ever thrust morality upon his readers; but his clean, 
strong men and fair, virtuous women were strong ar- 
guments for righteousness through their ideal manhood 
and womanhood. He had equals in character-making, 
and numerous superiors in plot construction; but very 
few writers of English fiction have surpassed him in the 
maintenance of an all-round high standard and an ab- 
sorbing interest. In style he lacked the artistic and 

300 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

subtle touches so emphasized in the later years of the 
nineteenth century ; but he wrote with a vim, a sweep, 
and a rush that have not yet forfeited the admiration 
of the critics. In his truthfulness to Scottish life and 
spirit, he made local color so important that few novel- 
ists, since his day, have dared neglect it. He manipu- 
lated a host of figures over a vast field with such 
assurance and daring that those who look closely into 
the matter can but wonder that he made so few mis- 
takes. Finally, he made the past live again; he made 
history a matter of absorbing interest; he converted the 
scenes and deeds of a nation's records into a veritable 
dreamland, tinted with the glamour of beautiful ro- 
mance. 

SCOTT 'S DISCIPLES 

Such a strong personality as that of Scott could not 
but influence a great number of observers and creative 
writers. In his own country, Scotland, his spirit may 
be seen in such works as John Gait's Annals of the Par- 
ish, Wilson's Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, and 
possibly Jane Porter's novels. In America Cooper, 
Simms, Kennedy, Paulding, and Charles Brockden 
Brown show themselves his disciples. In Germany we 
find Haring's Walladmor (1824), nothing more nor less 
than a Waverley novel with German touches; Freytag 
openly acknowledges his indebtedness ; while Georg 
Ebers was under no necessity of a public acknowledg- 
ment. In France, where we should expect Scott's mis- 
takes to be noticed most clearly, we find Alfred de 
Vigny copying his manner in Cinq-Mars (1826), Pros- 
per Merimee using the same general form in his La 

301 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Chronique du Begne de Charles IX (1829), and Victor 
Hugo using many a trait of Scott's in Notre Dame 
(1830). Even in Italy Manzoni's The Betrothed 
(1824) proves the potency of the border minstrel's 
original way of using mystery, sweeping action, native 
manners, and strong, broad characterization. 

The English followers of Scott — at a distance — are of 
course innumerable. Mrs. Anna Bray's The Protestant 
(1828) is an early example, while her Fitz of Fit z ford, 
Trelawney of Trelaicne, and Eartland Forest, dealing 
with the life of Devon and Cornwall, are still better 
examples of fiction specialized to a particular section. 
Horace Smith's Bramhletye House (1826), Oliver 
Cromwell, and Arthur Arundel, while written in a prose 
exceedingly dull at times, contain some vivid pictures 
of the Cavaliers in Cromwell's days. G. P. R. James, 
author of more than one hundred pieces of fiction, was 
clearly under the direct influence of Scott; but he 
lacked the minstrel's glamour of romance, and would 
be almost totally forgotten had not Thackeray's bur- 
lesque on his Eichelieu (1829) given him some doubtful 
fame. William Harrison Ainsworth in such works as 
Bookicood (1834) and Jack Shepard (1839) goes be- 
yond Scott in the use of crimes, and almost returns to 
the Gothic terrors in his descriptions of the thoughts 
and emotions of the condemned. He has Scott's passion 
for wild adventures, and one of these, Dick Turpin's 
wild ride from London to York with the reins in his 
teeth and a pistol in each hand, is not likely to sink 
into complete obscurity. In such stories as The Tower 
of London, Old Saint Paul's, and Windsor Castle, Ains- 
worth takes as the center or goal of his story some great 

302 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

event like the London Fire or the Plagne, and weaves 
about it a melodramatic chronicle of crime or weirdness. 
In the later years of the century Robert Louis Stevenson 
seemed in many ways a re-created Scott ; while even in 
the twentieth century HaU Caine has poured forth a 
turbulent stream of fiction, having undoubtedly a source 
in the work of Scott, but far more passionate and lack- 
ing in the noble humanity of the Waverley stories. 

Thus, through a hundred years this lover of the 
Scottish life and song has made his influence felt. The 
immense vigor thro^^Ti into his works, the vividness with 
which he felt and saw his characters' emotions and 
deeds, the coloring of old, far-off events, the persistent 
victories of the nobler attributes of mankind, the sweep 
and virility of his plots — these traits doubtless are the 
main causes of his permanent popularity, and may be 
the incentives for future masters of romance. Just now 
there is a tendency for all novelists to be painstaking 
photographers, but the dreamers of the good, the beauti- 
ful, the ideal have by no means passed away. 

BULWER-LTTTOX 

Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton (1803-1S73), is an- 
other novelist undoubtedly influenced by the great Sir 
Walter : but Bulwer-L^-tton was such a literary weather- 
cock that he could not long abide the disciple of any 
one great master. Few men in English literature un- 
dertook so many kinds of writing with so much success, 
and no other English novelist has ever attempted so 
many widely different t^-pes of fiction. He constantly 
had his finger close to the British literary pulse, and the 
varying tastes of the reading public promptly brought 

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the proper changes in his output. In his early novel, 
Pelham (1828), he created a brilliant society story; in 
Paul Clifford (1830) he produced a melodramatic tale 
of criminal life; in Pilgrims of the Bliine (1834) he 
wrote a dainty fairy story; in such books as Bienzi 
(1835), The Last Days of Pompeii (1834), Harold 
(1848), and The Last of the Barons (1843), he dis- 
played his power in precise historical romances. In 
Ernest Maltravers he attempted with some success an 
analysis of social questions of his day; in The Caxtons 
(1849) and its continuation My Novel (1853), he 
wrote skilful imitations of Sterne; in The Coming Race 
(1871) he used the new science and the new thought of 
his time, just as Edward Bellamy did seventeen years 
later in his Looking Backward, to prophesy the goal of 
the present tendencies of civilization ; in Pausanias 
(1876) and Eenelm Chillingly he endeavored to make 
clear the effect of national institutions and environments 
upon the individual. 

It required a man with an immense knowledge of life 
to produce such a variety of fiction. Bulwer-Lytton 
possessed such a knowledge, and with it the persever- 
ance and accuracy of a zealous student, remarkable in- 
ventive powers, a sense of humor, and a most facile 
pen. Critics have scoffed at his pretensions, and have 
sometimes refused him a place among the greater nov- 
elists of the century; but it must be admitted that he 
created some characters that seem destined to live, some 
new and intensely dramatic scenes and situations, and a 
number of descriptions not frequently equaled and 
seldom surpassed in our language. That he is some- 
times overcome by his vast array of historical facts and 

304 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

crowds his canvas with two many incidents is apparent 
to any one who has read The Last of the Barons; but, 
on the other hand, Harold, Rienzi, and The Last Days 
of Pompeii leave an impression of reality which only a 
masterly pen could produce. And whether or not the 
picture be overcrowded, it is vivid in its coloring and 
abounding with life. 

The formula upon which these historical romances 
are based is sufficiently apparent. Bulwer-Lytton gen- 
erally shows some great crisis or momentous turning 
point in the world's history, and presents in much de- 
tail the events leading up to the social or civic up- 
heaval. The Last Days of Pompeii is a conspicuous 
example of the process. Here, however, he developed 
an admirable story under great difficulties ; for, having 
gathered a multitude of facts, and having undeniably 
gained the atmosphere, he could find no historical char- 
acters to place in the scene, and was under the necessity 
of creating figures that appeared to fit the situation 
and the environment. Nydia, the blind girl, should be 
sufficient proof of his success. These historical tales, 
as weU as several of his other works, are in reality 
dramas with comments, and the scenes there described 
might easily be staged; they are in some phases too 
plainly theatrical. In spite of their vividness and won- 
derful pictures these stories of the past have not quite 
that romance which has made Scott's work beloved. 
Bulwer-Lytton looked at history more often from the 
philosopher's standpoint; his books contain studies in 
culture and national motives; Scott dealt more fre- 
quently with those larger traits found universally in 
man. 

20 305 



ENGLISH FICTION 

It has been indicated that Bulwer-Lytton passed 
from master to master. Jane Austen may have given 
suggestions for his society stories; Scott and Jane Por- 
ter made the path clear for his historical romances; 
Sterne was a little too plainly his teacher in The C ax- 
ions and My Novel. Here we are introduced to old 
English ^'illage life; here we meet an old captain, 
plainly a descendant of Uncle Toby; here, too, is the 
man like Mr. Shandy, dealing in abstruse theories. A 
lame duck, a moth nearly killed by going too near the 
fire, and a dilapidated donkey are brought forward to 
lay claim to our sympathy. The fantastic style and the 
playing with ideas and words complete the imitation. 

But whatever this author attempted he did surpris- 
ingly well. Eevi\'ing the old type of Gothic romance, 
he brought out the nobler and more poetic qualities 
latent in it. Pilgrims of the Ehine is a dainty concep- 
tion of the meeting and love-making of English and Ger- 
man fairies. Zanoni (1842) using the old theme of the 
Rosicrucians, a belief in spiritual beings who impart 
the secrets of the universe to the pure, tells the story 
of such a man, who, after marrying an opera girl, loses 
his knowledge and power, and is killed in the Eeign of 
Terror. Surely Bulwer-L^i;ton saw the possibilities of 
greatness and high nobility in every theme, and strove 
zealously to evolve such qualities. 

Why, then, has his work shown so little promise of 
permanence? In the first place, he made himself a 
victim of ridicule in his earlier days by his affectations 
and somewhat pompous style. In the second place, even 
when these defects were partially remedied in his later 
work, he remained entirely too rhetorical. Again, he 

306 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

was entirely too much interested in the historical, social, 
or ethical lesson which he desired his novel to teach. 
He possessed genuine creative power in both plot and 
character; but he limited this power in his efforts to 
make these two elements fit the lesson or ethical rule to 
be thrust home. Like Scott, he often refused to allow 
his characters to reveal themselves, but insisted upon 
describing them himself. Lastly, that intense person- 
ality, which Sidney Lanier declares the crowning virtue 
of modern literature, and which made Scott and Dickens 
masters in spite of their defects, was not his. And 
yet, Rienzi and The Last Days of Pompeii are likely to 
retain readers for centuries to come. For Bulwer-Lyt- 
ton, if not an author possessing personal magnetism, at 
least saw vividly and compelled, by his accuracy and 
painstaking zeal, the same vivid realization on the part 
of his readers. 

GOTHIC REVIVALS 

It is interesting to see how often the weird form of 
the Gothic romance revived and fitted itself into the 
advancing conceptions of the mysterious. "We have no- 
ticed how Bulwer-Lytton refined it and brought out so 
successfully a number of its daintier and nobler quali- 
ties. As the nineteenth century progressed the type 
became more specialized in the detective story and the 
tale of pure terror. It seemed to have a fascination for 
many widely different kinds of intellect. In 1829 a 
volume entitled Colloquies on Society, containing the 
talks of Sir Thomas More's ghost to Robert Southey, 
attracted much attention. Mrs. Shelley's monstrous 
Frankenstein seems to have startled half of Europe. 

307 



ENGLISH FICTION 

She and her husband and Byron, while spending a 
rainy week at Lake Geneva, whiled away their time 
inventing ghost stories, and this highly imaginative 
woman conceived the idea of having a medical student 
construct a man-like monster from materials gathered 
from tombs and dissecting rooms. The creature comes 
to life, wreaks vengeance upon the student and others, 
and at length ends its strenuous existence in the North 
Sea. This was indeed running Gotliicism to an extreme. 
In 1820 Charles Llaturin, an Irishman, made some im- 
provements on the type by using terror openly and 
frankly in his Melmotli, The Wanderer, where we are 
shown two lovers captive in a dungeon, slowly driven 
by starvation and loneliness to madness and death. 
Poe himself could scarcely have excelled this theme in 
gruesomeness. Wilkie Collins, a genuine genius in plot 
construction, exemplified in his Woman in White and 
Moonstone a more intricate and ingenious turn of the 
Gothic. Perhaps the most pleasant turn the Gothic ever 
took is to be found in Alice in Wonderland, where the 
merging of the real with the unreal produces the 
very experiences most often met with in dreams. There 
is in human nature a secret or open desire to know the 
details of the horrible, or to wander into the mj^sterious 
regions that border on death, and as long as this ten- 
dency exists, we may expect to find the Gothic revive 
now and again in modified but no less weird forms. 

As life and society become more and more complex, 
fiction must necessarily display more varied and dis- 
tinct types. Particularly has this been exemplified in 
the nineteenth century. Indeed it would be confusing, 
if not almost impossible, to dwell in detail upon the 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

theories, customs, hobbies, scientific ideas, creeds, dog- 
mas, and philosophies for which fiction has been used 
in the past hundred years. Every class of society has 
contributed not only material but authors, and no type 
of human life has been without its interpreters to ex- 
press its own peculiar view of existence, and its pur- 
poses and goals. Let us but glance at a few of these 
interpretations in the earlier years of the century. 

IRISH FICTION 

We have noticed elsewhere Miss Edgeworth's pleasant 
and interesting pictures of Irish life; such work was 
of course destined to tempt imitators. William Carle- 
ton's Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, very 
serious and realistic at times, further revealed to the 
English people the trials and pathos of their Celtic 
neighbors. Samuel Lover in such fiction as Handy 
Andy (1842) brought out even more vividly the broad 
Irish humor. Miss Sidney Owenson wept and moaned 
over her Celtic folk. Thomas Croker's Last of the Irish 
Sarpints, and Charles Lever's dashing novels, such as 
Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, and Tom Burke 
of Ours would easily counteract any tendency to look 
upon Erin as the land of tears ; while the stories of Jus- 
tin McCarthy, Lady Morgan, and T. C. Gratton wouldi 
completely demolish such an idea. 

WAR AND SEA FICTION 

The soldier and sailor life of Great Britain has long 
been a favorite theme with English writers, and the 
nineteenth century saw a deluge of such fiction. Fred- 
erick Marryat, who himself had been a naval officer, 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

harked back to the Smollett type, and in Peter Simple 
(1834) and Mr. Midshipman Easy (1836) produced a 
deal of hearty fun mingled with some decidedly im- 
probable sea tales, such as those by Captain Kearney, 
who simply couldn't tell the truth, and whose tombstone 
bore the appropriate epitaph: "Here lies Captain 
Kearney." W. H. Maxwell, an Irishman, author of 
Stories of Waterloo (1834), taking as his themes "wars 
and rumors of war," generally took his English sol- 
diers to some wild portion of Ireland, and then trans- 
ported them to the Continent to take a thrilling part 
in the Battle of Waterloo, or some such dread combat. 
Waterloo was a veritable "rock in the wilderness" for 
war novelists of the thirties and forties. James Grant, 
in his Highlanders in Spain (1845) has the hero fight in 
this mighty battle, then returns him to his Scottish lass, 
and thus gains for the book all the charms of the travel 
story, the story of manners, the story of adventures, 
and the love story. It should not be a matter of won- 
der, therefore, that the fifty or more tales produced 
by Grant on this formula made the midnight oil burn 
freely in British homes. 

Publishers to this day hold that the "travel" book 
is a good venture in their business; the array of suc- 
cessful stories of this type in the English language goes 
far to prove their theory. British novelists of the early 
century dared to reach beyond Waterloo and Spain for 
their materials and environments. As early as 1823 
James Morier, in his efforts to bring out the weirdness 
and magic of the Orient, made himself ridiculous in his 
Hajji Baha of Ispahan and fully equaled this first at- 
tempt with his Hajji Baha in England in 1828. Charles 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Reade's Never too Late to Mend contains some vivid 
pictures of the Australian gold field, and had, there- 
fore, a wide reading. Even in these later years, when 
the world seems to have become an open book, such works 
as Hope's Anastasius, portraying the evil of Greek and 
Turkish life, and Kipling's stories of India, prove the 
permanence of the travel motif among the British 
readers. 

REALISM 

Undoubtedly most of these works were honest attempts 
in realism. Their authors faithfully endeavored to show 
life as they thought it was in the particular spheres 
under observation. Realism, as we have seen, is no 
doubt as native as romanticism to the British; we have 
seen it to some extent in Greene and Defoe, and any 
number of eighteenth-century writers, and Jane Austen 
gave it a healthy impetus at the beginning of the new 
century. Even Scott's immense vogue could not crush 
it. Several of his Scottish contemporaries chose to por- 
tray the life of their own day, rather than that of a 
dim and idealized past. Susan Ferrier, for instance, 
a personal friend of his, wrote some surprisingly real- 
istic work in her Marriage (1818), The Inheritance 
(1824), and Destiny (1831). In Marriage we become 
acquainted with a fashionable English girl (with three 
beloved dogs) w^ho marries a Scotchman and goes to 
his Highland home where she meets his prim and quaint 
sisters and aunts. The humor of some of the situations 
may easily be imagined. 

John Gait, in his Ayrshire Legatees (1820), attempts 
very much the same sort of humorous realism. Here 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

we have the letters of an Ayrshire preacher and his 
family to his friends, and their descriptions of London 
sights are such as we should expect from "Uncle Josh" 
of to-day. Again, in Annals of the Parish (1821) an 
Ayrshire minister tells his experiences in his long service 
as pastor in the little village. His account of his three 
successive wives, of the religious and industrial changes 
in the community, and of the hrave widow, Mrs. Mal- 
colm, who rears her family in sobriety and godliness, 
and who sees her daughter married happily, and her 
son killed fighting the French, become matters of gen- 
uine interest to all who read. Indeed this is the very 
same sort of work that Ian Maclaren developed so beau- 
tifully ; both showed the lights and shadows of the Scot- 
land that they knew and loved so well. Dr. David Moir, 
with the help of Gait, wrote a book of similar pathetic 
and humorous charm in his Mansie Wauch (1828). The 
apprentice who comes out of the Lammermoor hills to 
work in the town, and who, pining away for his native 
land, dies on the road back to the beloved valleys, is 
a figure of true, pathetic interest, and one not easily 
cast from the memory of the reader. 

In England the same realism was highly popular. 
The humor of Jane Austen was a trifle too difficult in its 
subtle refinement for most of her English disciples to 
imitate; but Mary Mitford in Our Village (1824^1832), 
Harriet Martineau in Five Years of Youth, or Sense and 
Sentiment (1831), E. S. Barrett in Adventures of Cher- 
uhina (1813), Eichard Barham in Ingoldshy Legends, 
and Dinah Mulock in The Ogilvies and John Halifax, 
followed with some success her mingling of quiet real- 
ism, half-hidden irony, and pictures of domestic circles. 

312 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

The novel of manners is successful only when certain 
traits in it are not confined to the limited section under 
discussion, but are, on the contrary, readily appreciated 
for their universality. The works just mentioned pos- 
sess the charm of just such imiversal traits; but some 
of the attempts of the day at pictures of English aristo- 
cratic life — a legitimate theme when based on actual 
knowledge — were as absurd and as dangerous morally 
as some of the ' ' criminal ' ' novels of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries. So, too, the novel of purpose 
which was being exploited by Bulwer-Lytton was an- 
other type extremely liable to failure among the host of 
would-be novelists of the first fifty years of the period. 
Intense interest in either plot or character is necessary 
to counteract the tendency to state the theory or hobby 
too baldly; the appearance of fanaticism ruins a story 
as a story; the plot must set forth some of the larger 
general interests of life along with its specialized theme. 
Bulwer-Lytton and, later, Charles Dickens had the 
genius to combine these essentials ; but what a multitude 
of ambitious, but now forgotten novelists of those early 
days failed utterly to produce a work that would live 
in spite of its theories! 

BENJAMIN DISRAELI 

We have seen how closely Bulwer-Lytton held his fin- 
ger on the British literary pulse, and how quickly he 
responded to the fiction demands of his public. At the 
same time there was writing another novelist who 
watched his public just as closely, but for political, 
rather than literary, purposes. This was the brilliant 
Jew, Benjamin Disraeli ( 1804r-1881 ) . Bulwer-Lytton 

313 



ENGLISH FICTION 

has been criticized by some students for his supposed 
lack of pronounced personality; no one has ever ac- 
cused Benjamin Disraeli of such a defect. There was 
one man from whom he could never get away very far 
— and that was Disraeli. From his first novel, Vivian 
Grey (1826), written when he was twenty-one, to En- 
dymion (1880) written when he was seventy-five, he 
could never resist the temptation to make his work auto- 
biographical. In Vivian Grey we find Mrs. Lorraine say- 
ing to the hero, ' ' Shrined in the secret chamber of your 
soul there is an image before which you bow down in 
adoration, and that image is yourself"; and this first of 
his fictions is in many ways but a chronicle of his own 
political hopes and ambitions. 

Indeed, like Lord Byron, Disraeli seemed always to 
base his stories on himself or some other equally con- 
crete personage about him. To those acquainted with 
English and Continental history it is no difficult task to 
discover the originals of those figures that parade them- 
selves through his books. Vivian Grey, Tancred, and 
Endymion are your *' humble" servant, Lord Beacons- 
field ; Julius von Aslingen is Beau Brummel, the famous 
gentleman of fashion ; ]\Ir. Fitzbloom is the equally 
famous Sir Robert Peel ; Lord Monmouth is the infamous 
Marquis of Hertfordshire, later given lasting infamy as 
Ste^Tie in Thackeray's Vanity Fair. Mr. Foaming 
Fudge is Lord Brougham, a founder of the Edinhurgh 
Review; Mr. Charlatan Gas is the English Prime Minis- 
ter, George Canning; Stanislaus Hoax is the widely read 
English humorist, Theodore Hook, who suggested much 
to Dickens, and who was used by Thackeray as Mr. 
Wagg ; Mr. Liberal Snake is the Scottish geologist, John 

314 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

McCulloch; Mr. Stucco is Mr. Nash, the architect who 
designed Haymarket; Dr. Masham is Samuel Wilber- 
force, Bishop of Winchester, whose glibness of tongue 
gained him the title of "Soapy Sam"; and Mr. St. 
Barbe was no other than Thackeray, who had no great 
love for this brilliant, showy, and somewhat supercilious 
Jew. It is very evident that Disraeli looked upon the 
novel as something more than a mere literary instru- 
ment ; it was a road roller used for crushing his enemies 
or an engine for smoothing his own pathway to higher 
political honors. 

From the standpoint of technique Disraeli lacks much 
of being among the masters of English fiction. He pos- 
sesses a rich and erratic imagination, and this frequently 
leads him into exaggerations and pictures of Oriental 
opulence ridiculous to Occidental common sense. His 
characters almost always possess wealth, vast influence, 
and surprising brilliance, and are generally as ambitious 
as — Disraeli. These ladies and gentlemen have no small 
ability in posing, and have a positive genius for the the- 
atrical. One modern critic puts it well when he says: 
**He took his reader into wondrous baronial halls, filled 
with wondrous gems, with wondrous tapestries, with 
wondrous paintings, and introduced him to wondrous 
dukes and duchesses, looking out from wondrous dark 
orbs, and breathing through almond-shaped nostrils. ' ' * 

His plots, almost without exception, are copiously 
supplied with flaws, to which his undoubted flashes of 
vivid genius will not wholly blind us. Then, too, those 
who know the character and the career of Disraeli can 
not rid themselves of the unpleasant idea that he is 

* Tuckennan : A History of English Prose Fiction, p. 293. 

315 



ENGLISH FICTION 

constantly talking about himself. In short, these books 
are the dreams of an inordinately ambitious and almost 
offensively egotistical man, and not all the brilliancy and 
the interest in historical characters can wholly compen- 
sate for this element. 

In two essentials of the novel — characterization and 
literary style — Disraeli must be acknowledged as of far 
more than average talent. Even his youthful Vivian 
Grey is admirable in its epigrammatic statements, its 
vivacity, its vigor, and its audacity. He possessed the 
faculty of mingling romantic adventures, political real- 
ism, and cynical society pictures, and he did it in such 
a manner as to hold our interest. There is, moreover, a 
certain piquancy in the audacious, slap-dash, literary 
criticisms which the assurance of his youth and of his 
race allowed him to sprinkle throughout the pages. 

'* 'Poor Washington Irving!' said Vivian, writing, *I 
knew him well. He always slept at dinner.' 

* ' * How delightful ! I should have so liked to have 
seen him! He seems quite forgotten now in England. 
How came we to talk of him ? ' 

*' 'Forgotten! Oh! he spoilt his elegant talents in 
writing German and Italian twaddle with the rawness of 
a Yankee.' " 

Contarini Fleming, a ''psychological romance" 
(1832), compelled English and Continental readers to 
recognize the peculiar genius of the young writer. 
Beckford, the famous author of VatheTc, in the early 
years of the century, and Sir Leslie Stephen, at the 
close of the century, granted it high praise; while 
Goethe and Heine thought it displayed great power. 

316 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Like Viviaii Grey, it lacks a sustained plot; it too fre- 
quently reminds one of a loosely connected series of 
episodes or pictures, each pleasing enough, perhaps, in 
itself, but not carrying affairs forward to any noticeable 
degree. Here again we come upon Disraeli's idealized 
portrait of himself — a boy imaginative, brave, and am- 
bitious, who grows up to become a prominent figure in 
political life. It is the dream of the young Jew long- 
ing for a position of power among the rulers of the land. 
"My imaginary deeds of conquest," exclaims the hero, 
"my heroic aspirations, my long-dazzling dreams of fan- 
ciful adventure were, perhaps, the sources of ideal ac- 
tion ; that stream of eloquent and choice expression that 
seemed ever flowing in my ear was probably intended 
to be directed in a different channel than human as- 
semblies, and might melt or kindle the passions of man- 
kind in silence." 

The passionate love story, Henrietta Temple (1836), 
is unique among Disraeli's works, in that it may be 
Disraeli's own love romance, that its characters are 
fictitious, and that it has a happy ending. Fer- 
dinand Armine, expecting to inherit a fortune from 
his grandfather, becomes heavily involved in debt, 
and then is startled into a painful consciousness 
of the fact by the fortune's being left to his cousin, 
Katherine Grandison. He becomes engaged to her, 
but about the same time falls wildly in love with 
Henrietta Temple, and is soon engaged to her also. The 
duplicity is discovered; Ferdinand and Henrietta fall 
ill with brain fever, and Katherine nurses him back to 
health. Henrietta goes to Italy, and becomes engaged 
to Lord Montfort. Henrietta and Montfort having re- 

317 



ENGLISH FICTION 

turned to England, meet frequently with Ferdinand 
and Miss Grandison, and fortunately for all concerned, 
Lord Montfort and Katherine Grandison develop a pas- 
sion for each other, and Armine is left free to marry 
Henrietta, whose father, it should be mentioned, had 
recently become heir to a great fortune. All this may 
appear very silly to modern readers, and, judging by 
Disraeli's mocking tone,' he must have had the same 
opinion; but the reading public of the thirties and 
forties was quite captivated by the romance. 

In 1844, with the publication of Coningshy, Dis- 
raeli's work developed a somewhat deeper tendency. 
This book and its successors, Syhil and Tancred, sup- 
posedly written to aid the "Young England" party, 
are really strong pieces of political fiction; but still the 
inevitable Disraeli thrusts himself before us, and our 
confidence in the philanthropic purpose of the stories is 
lost. Be that as it may, the characters in these books, 
as in most of his works, are undeniably striking, even if 
theatrical; while the language, too rhetorical, like Bul- 
wer-Lytton 's, is vivid, and at times eloquent. 

Tailored appeared in 1847. There was necessarily a 
pause after this in Disraeli's literary career. He was 
reaping the harvest of his literary plans, and was com- 
pelling homage from a Parliament and a people who a. 
few years before openly despised him. At length, how- 
ever, after he had supped his fill of the sweets and sours 
of public service, he returned in 1870 to his first love, 
and produced Lothair. Here, as in its successor, Endym- 
ion (1880), is the same rather coarse admiration for 
riches and the attendant luxuries. The furnishings of 
the ''magnificent" mansions scarcely condescend to silks 

318 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

and satins; while nectar and ambrosia apparently take 
the place of wine and cake. Here, too, are the same 
satires on prominent personages of the day, and the 
same personal touches which readers had learned to ex- 
pect in his earlier stories. 

A man of positive genius along some lines, brilliant, 
witty, capable of splendid irony and satire, possessed 
of a ready and vivacious pen, a portrayer of some 
virile characters, Disraeli was yet so full of his own 
personal ambition and so imbued with regard for his 
own thoughts that he could not see clearly motives and 
actions unconcerned with his own immediate activities. 
Then, too, a racial cynicism deterred him from taking 
the beings of his own creation with that seriousness 
which made the much less brilliant Jane Austen a mov- 
ing force in English literature. He stands as a conspic- 
uous example of those defects which thoroughly self -cen- 
tered individuality inevitably displays. 

CHARLES DICKENS 

Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was a man of just as 
great individuality as Disraeli; but what a minute por- 
tion of it was self-centered! True, he expressed with 
childlike frankness the pleasure he found in the ap- 
plause and the material rewards that came to him so 
liberally ; but how heartily he entered into the desires 
and ambitions of mankind, how he suffered with the 
afflicted, what large sympathy was his ! His personality 
penetrated to the innermost soul, not only of his own 
people, but of a half score of other nations as well. 
Surely his understanding of humanity was of a uni- 
versal character. Few men's names have more often 

319 



ENGLISH FICTION 

been upon the lips of English-speaking nations, and 
none pronounced with more affection. His very de- 
fects, clearly recognized as they are in this day, were 
amiable ; his faults leaned toward virtue. 

His early training was severe. In boyhood he learned 
life not so much from books as from bitter experience. 
In young manhood the clash of city life and the unre- 
mitting demands of poverty were his teachers. His 
courses in rhetoric and belles-lettres amounted to noth- 
ing ; he gained the power of expression under conditions 
that would have bewildered the talents of a lesser gen- 
ius. Hear his own words: *'I have often transcribed 
for the printer from my shorthand notes important 
public speeches in which the strictest accuracy was 
required, and a mistake in which would have been to a 
young man severely compromising, writing on the palm 
of my hand by the light of a dark lantern in a post- 
chaise and four, galloping through a wild country and 
through the dead of night, at the then surprising rate 
of fifteen miles an hour. . . . Returning home from 
excited political meetings in the country to the waiting 
press in London, I do verily believe I have been upset 
in almost every description of vehicle known in this 
country. I have been in my time belated in miry by- 
roads, toward the small hours, forty or fifty miles from 
London, in a wheelless carriage with exhausted horses 
and drunken post-boys, and have got back in time to be 
received with never-forgotten compliments." 

Such a training led to an almost excessive animation 
in his expression. His books were written rapidly, and, 
like his life, impress one with the sense of an almost 
strained whirl of activity and excitement. This train- 

320 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

ing, it may at once be confessed, was not conducive to 
the utmost refinement and delicacy of shading in por- 
traying emotions and situations, and we should not be 
surprised, therefore, to find his sentiment exaggerated 
at times almost into sentimentality, and his humor so 
broad as to verge often on the farcical. But it is 
equally true that those traits decidedly pleased his day, 
which still lingered under the sunshine of Romanticism, 
and that even in our own somewhat calmer era his use 
of the larger elemental emotions, his intense convic- 
tions, and his enthusiastic belief in the goodness of 
mankind are still most effective. He was naturally an 
actor; he saw the dramatic possibilities in all that he 
observed; his imagination overwhelmed his judgment; 
and under the stress of his heated fancy, his views of 
motives, emotions, and deeds amounted virtually to 
hallucinations. 

It is very doubtful whether in these particulars he 
improved with age ; many critics have declared his ear- 
lier books his best. Perhaps he went to his work with 
preconceived notions, and no statement of changed con- 
ditions could shake these stubborn convictions. He 
came to America in 1842 with settled ideas as to the 
defects in our civic and social life, and it was impos- 
sible for the literary results — American Notes and Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit — to be other than prejudiced and unfair. 
Such a man, however, is a mighty force in times when 
reforms are crying for champions, and his whole-hearted 
work for the oppressed in Great Britain deserved and 
obtained the gratitude of the English nation. That he 
was wrong in some of his descriptions of British prison 
life, slum conditions, court injustice, and official red tape 
21 321 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and tyranny is not to be doubted ; but to decide that the 
exaggeration was excessive, would be a most unwar- 
ranted conclusion. Those who are acquainted with Lon- 
don of the twentieth century can with but little diffi- 
culty point out the ''creatures that once were men," and 
can find suffering and cruelty far more bitter than any 
pictured by Charles Dickens. 

Two writers, now almost entirely unknown, largely 
influenced the earlier writings of Dickens. Theodore 
Hook, a careless, quick, but often sharp delineator of 
humorous characters, was, for about twenty years (1820- 
1840) the joker of London literary circles. He observed 
society with a keen eye, and in Sayings and Doings 
(1824—1830) he exposed with merciless frankness and 
wit the mean trickery, duplicity, and blackmailing of 
the societies with which he was acquainted. Dickens 
admired this audacious fellow's manner of putting 
things, and evidently enjoyed his hearty, easily under- 
stood humor and broad characterizations. Pierce Egan, 
once famous in both England and America, began in 
July, 1821, the publication in monthly instalments of 
Life in London; or the Day and Night Scenes of Jerry 
Hawthorn, Esq. — a series which was illustrated by 
Cruikshank, then at his best, and which had a host of 
hearty readers. The London cockneys and their ridicu- 
lous dialect introduced into these sketches were the very 
same as those used later by Dickens with such masterly 
effects. Corinthian Tom and Bob Logic, an Oxford 
man, go with Jerry into the haunts of London's various 
planes of society, and the vigorous scenes resulting are 
full of that hearty humor and animation which were 
later to be so characteristic of Boz. That Egan's 

322 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

stories had dramatic possibilities was evidenced by their 
highly successful staging in London and New York, 
and this quality, too, must have appealed to Dickens. 
In 1828 Egan closed the series with The Finish of the 
Adventures of Tom, Jerry, and Logic, in which some of 
the characters are violently killed, some die in wretched- 
ness, while Jerry, now reformed, marries a country 
belle, and becomes a model Justice of the Peace. Thus 
Dickens fed his youthful genius upon works so crude 
in some ways that modern criticism would have little 
more than contempt for them. But this is not to be 
placed to Dickens's discredit. Did not Shakespeare use 
in the same manner the poor translations of Italian 
romances — with some rather commendable differences 
between the sources and the results? 

In April, 1836, while Egan was in the midst of his 
success, Dickens published the first number of the Pick- 
wick Papers — with what success all the world knows. 
As first written, these sketches were intended as a sort 
of commentary on Robert Seymour's cockney sporting 
plates; but Seymour died soon after the first number 
appeared, and Dickens, changing his plan, wrote with 
far more freedom and charm. The influence of Egan 
in this work is not to be denied. Egan's papers had 
told of a certain fat fellow, undoubtedly a literary fore- 
father of Mr. Pickwick; Pickwick itself is the name of 
a place used by Egan ; some adventures of Dickens's hero 
are similar to those of Egan's Skinflint; the rural scenes 
associated with Squire Hawthorn were evidently helpful 
to the greater writer. 

Egan and Hook, however, used the same themes and 
characters over and over; their inventive ability was 

323 



ENGLISH FICTION 

strictly limited. Charles Dickens had an inexhaustible 
store of figures and incidents ; Pickwick Papers alone 
possesses a host of characters and a half hundred dis- 
tinctly different situations. Moreover, unlike Hook and 
Egan, Dickens had a sympathy too large for mere 
ridicule of the lower classes ; he might laugh with them, 
but scarcely ever at them. Indeed, Pickwick Papers 
marks a turning point in English fiction ; for it was one 
of the first works to emphasize most clearly humanitari- 
anism in the novel. There was so much in society, 
church, and law in need of a change from harsh rigidity 
to liberal sympathy, and the novel under Dickens ex- 
pressed more and more clearly the call of the times for 
a larger humanity in all things. 

The philanthropic tendency in fiction had been 
checked by Scott, who had a poor opinion of the ethical 
value of the novel ; but in the days of Charles Dickens it 
returned to its own with immense power. In 1830 Bul- 
wer-Lytton had pointed out in Paul Clifford that the 
prisons were crime-productive; Mrs. Gaskell showed 
the miserable conditions of the lower laborers; other 
writers of less genius undertook the same investigations ; 
and, in the three decades between 1830 and 1860 a great 
number of treatises of this kind were produced. This 
was the sort of thing very close to the heart of Dickens ; 
the Gothic, with all its blood-curdling ghosts was out- 
Gothiced by his accounts of prison life. Modern Eng- 
land, as pictured by his pen, was more exciting than, 
the feudal realms of old ; a mob of the nineteenth cen- 
tury was proved more interesting than a battle of an- 
cient knights ; and a dirty tenement in a fever-stricken 
slum became more horrible than a castle dungeon of 

324 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

yore. Scott spoke from history; Dickens spoke from 
what he considered accurate, trustworthy observation. 

The trustworthiness of it, however, was denied by 
many of his contemporaries. Carlyle and other stu- 
dents of social life, after rather close investigation, de- 
clared that in most cases the conditions were greatly 
exaggerated by this novelist, and that in many instances 
the conditions described had ceased to exist many years 
before. In short, Dickens, thinking too often of the 
bitter days of his childhood, had failed to notice the im- 
provements that had been quietly progressing through- 
out the days of his manhood, and thus, unintentionally 
no doubt, he has left impressions, especially among 
Americans and foreign readers, that are undeniably 
erroneous. He may have been wrong in many of his 
premises; but these premises granted, he constructs a 
story wonderful in its detailed effectiveness. His exag- 
gerations doubtless did no harm, while his contagious 
sympathy may have given fresh impetus to the good 
work then in progress. He had small faith in the power 
of Parliament to effect reforms; rather his hope was 
based upon the awakening of the sympathy and indigna- 
tion of the British public, and he wrote from a heart 
burning with zeal created by his own early experiences 
and resulting convictions. 

How did he infuse his novels with their immense 
power? In the first place, there was, seemingly, no 
limit to his ability in invention. There are more inci- 
dents in any one of his novels than in a half-dozen 
works produced by some present-day novelists. Nor 
are these episodes and situations loosely put together; 
each, distinctly visualized as it is, seems a natural part 

325 



ENGLISH FICTION 

of the lengthy and well-lilled -whole. His inventiveness 
in elianu'terization is no less remarkable. He ereated 
hundreds of tigures and each is as distinct, as lovable, 
or as hateful as the folk who pass us daily. He saw the 
details of his beings — their forms and natures — with 
sueh distinctness that critics have sometimes declared 
the personages who joy and sorrow throughout his pages 
to be nothing short of caricatures. Surely this is un- 
just. Pickwicks, Samuel "SVellei's, Mrs. Gamps and Lit- 
tle Nells still walk the streets of not only London, but 
New York, and Paris, and all the other A'ast cities of 
the modern world. Dickens's actor-instinct, his love of 
the dramatic and the theatrical, may have tempted him 
at times to enlarge on certain traits; but in the main 
these things are very real, verj' himian, and very recog- 
nizable. 

Again, Dickens frankly appealed to the primal emo- 
tions of mankind — terror, humor, sorrow, joy — and he 
did it with an openness that has by no means pleased 
the stricter critics; and yet those who refuse to see the 
best art in his use of these elements are compelled to 
confess that they touch the soul and touch it deeply. 
Thackeray was afraid of such free use of emotion, and 
in public might have expressed cynical hints about senti- 
mentality. Note, however, this little incident. A lady 
entering Thackeray's study found him in tears. 

"Little Xell is dead." he said brokenly. 

"Little Xell?" the lady repeated. 

"Yes. Little Nell," was the answer, "she is dead — 
I've just been reading it." On his desk lay an open 
copy of The Old Ciiri'Osity Shop. 

The British public of Dickens' and Thackeray's day 
326 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

had strong nerves, and the appeal could seldom be too 
violent. Even to-day, while the author's premeditated 
sentiment may no longer cause such heart-rending sor- 
row, there is a poetic quality in his pathos that un- 
doubtedly appeals to our sense of the beautiful. Again 
while his humor may not have that subtleness so much 
desired in these later years, the hearty British of the 
middle nineteenth century loved it for its very broad- 
ness. And, with all their broadness and simplicity, such 
scenes as Samuel Weller's composition of his "walen- 
tine" or Mr. Micawber's waiting in the midst of his 
numerous household for something to "turn up" are 
true and charmingly human. 

It Is this touch of the human on his every page that 
has saved Dickens. Uis characters may have the de- 
fect of Ben Jonson's people — they are often charac- 
ters of one ''humor" or trait, and one only. He may 
have too great a love for the eccentric in humanity. 
Micawber, the personification of eternal hopefulness and 
eternal poverty, Pecksniff, the personification of essen- 
tial hypocrisy, Samuel Weller, the personification of un- 
improvable blockheadedness, may not be the average 
men of many traits and various hobbies we meet in our 
walks about town; but they are decidedly alive, and, if 
we have never met their kind, we are certainly sorry 
we have not. Dicken>s may have met them; to the very 
last he wrote with the air of a reporter rather than as a 
creator. And as a reporter, he improved upon most 
realists by describing the lights, as well as the shadows, 
of this life; too many authors who pride themselves 
upon their accurate photographic art capture nothing 
but the wretchedness and the depravity of mankind. 

327 



ENGLISH FICTION 

What a mingling we find, for instance, in Oliver Twist, 
which may be taken as the type of most of his work, — 
a mingling of humor, tragedy, vivid characterization, 
social pictures, exposures of wrongs, what not ! 

Some novelists are realists because, at bottom, they 
are really doubters or cynics. Charles Dickens is an 
idealist; the savage distrust of Swift and the cynicism 
of Sterne were unknown to him; like Fielding, his be- 
lief in human kind was whole-hearted, boundless. He 
could well afford to be unreservedly humorous ; a divine 
faith in the ultimate victory of the good and the true 
filled him with animated joy. It was the same divine 
faith in this ultimate victory, moreover, that caused him 
to labor so unceasingly in his attempt to expose and 
rid the earth of its foul spots. Your realist is often in 
grave danger of becoming a fatalist; for the distress of 
man may so impress him that in despair he will conclude 
that rebellion is futile. Not so with Charles Dickens. 
He had an old-fashioned belief in the innate goodness 
and sense of the common people ; he admired the hum- 
bler walks of life ; he despised lofty affectations, as well 
as all other forms of hypocrisy; and despite his intense 
realization and visualization of his scenes and characters, 
he portrayed lowly life without the vulgarity of Fielding 
or the cynicism of Sterne. 

Since he wrote so often about the uncultured, his 
appeal is often to them as readers. The masses like to 
hear about themselves, and find genuine pleasure in 
photographs of their own daily work and play, and 
Dickens answered this craving with such pictures of 
familiar scenes, home life, city streets, shops, picnics, 
fights, and sports as English literature had never before 

328 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

possessed. Moreover, he was old-fashioned enough to 
believe in heroes, and, much to the satisfaction of the 
"average reader," at least one of the species is present 
in every story he wrote. Lastly, his belief in the neces- 
sity of a happy ending was so settled that even the most 
admiring of his critics must regret that he persistently 
perverted some natural tragedies into slightly strained, 
though enjoyable, comedies. 

The influence of Charles Dickens can not even ap- 
proximately be measured. He decreased for a space the 
rigor of realism ; he taught a more genial mingling of 
the sweets and bitters of life ; he displayed an ability in 
delineation of character so remarkable that it is doubt- 
ful whether some of the beings he created will ever be 
forgotten; he described the humble life of his nation 
in a manner not yet surpassed by any British writer; 
he expressed a faith in humanity, an understanding, a 
sympathy, an idealism that have made his name syn- 
onymous with good fellowship, kindliness of heart, mu- 
tual helpfulness, and brotherly love. 

THACKERAY 

A genius may attract or repel other geniuses; in 
either case he is an influence. Thackeray (1811-1862) 
apparently had little liking for Scott's hero worship and 
romanticism, and even burlesqued the stirring adven- 
tures depicted by Sir Walter ; but nevertheless, he owed 
much, both directly and indirectly, to Scott. The lat- 
ter had made the way clear for future historical novel- 
ists; his merits could be imitated and his mistakes 
avoided ; the opponents of his school could use him as a 
sort of landmark to aid them in keeping as far as possi- 

329 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ble from his domain and influence. Thackeray may 
thus have used him. Henry Esmond (1852), moreover, 
owes much to Dumas, and Dumas to Scott, and thus, 
unconsciously he paid homage to the borderman. Du- 
mas, as well as Scott, used imaginary characters with a 
historic background, and did not hesitate to add the 
"theatricals" if apparently helpful; but Thackeray re- 
fused to give stage effects to his histories, and, omitting 
the antique words, the ''heroics" and the strange de- 
scriptions of stranger castles, he made his people of 
yore live their pleasant or sordid life as probably they 
did live it. The result is that Henry Esmond is doubt- 
less the best historical English novel since the days of 
Scott. It reproduces the atmosphere of a day that is 
past; its characters are lifelike and fit their time and 
environment; even their language sounds like that of 
their contemporaries, Addison and Steele. 

All this was gained through Thackeray's insistence 
on truth. He, like Carlyle, found that Dickens's prisons 
and almshouses were not true to those actually existing, 
and he therefore refused to consider this as realism. 
Always possessing a touch of the aristocratic, just as 
Dickens did of the democratic, he disliked exaggeration 
of any sort, and, having the critical as well as the creative 
genius, he exposed rather mercilessly in his younger 
days the shallowness, artificiality, and above all, the 
lack of truth in Scott, Bulwer-Lytton, G. P. R. James, 
Disraeli, and even his friend Lever. In those early 
years he wrote with the tone of the witty man-of-the- 
world, somewhat like the self-composed, fashionable 
clubman, who is not going to take anything — including 
himself — too seriously. Extremely sane in all things, 

330 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

not possessed of the reforming zeal so apparent in Dick- 
ens, endowed with a personality that would shine 
through his work in spite of his apparent efforts not to 
seem very much interested in his theme, gifted with a 
flexible style that adapted itself admirably to every 
variation of his mood, he wrote even in that apprentice- 
ship period with a finish, a facility, and a pleasantness 
that to this day make such work as The Bavenswing and 
Memorials of Gormandizing exceedingly enjoyable read- 
ing. At that time also he showed in such pieces as 
Barry Lyndon, The Great Eoggarty Diamond and the 
Book of Snohs some masterly character sketches. 

All this time, however, Thackeray was not taking him- 
self and his art seriously enough. The Book of Snohs 
and Yellowplush Papers are delightful things of their 
kind; but their kind was by no means the best that 
Thackeray could do. In January, 1847, the first num- 
ber of Vanity Fair appeared, and its surprising success 
suddenly caused the novelist to realize his power and its 
•attendant responsibilities. Never again did he return 
to the lighter supercilious tone; from the final number 
of Vanity Fair through Esmond (1852), The Newcomes 
(1855) and The Virginians (1859) he followed the 
deeper and broader currents of life. 

Thackeray had had a good deal to say as to how fic- 
tion should be written. Vanity Fair was his ideal, his 
exposition of the rational methods to be pursued in the 
composition of a novel. He presented an historical 
background, but made no great use of it. He preferred 
to know, not so much how the campaign led up to the 
Battle of Waterloo, as what was going on in fashionable 
London at the time. He accepted things as they were, 

331 



ENGLISH FICTION 

and, seemingly, had no ethical, political, or educational 
purpose in the story. He refused to believe all little 
boys angelic, and all English damsels amiable. He had 
no Little Nells; but he did have — most decidedly — 
Becky Sharp. He had a fear of heroes; he had not 
come across many of the species during his journey here 
below. Willian Dean Howells, it is said, was asked 
by a lady why he had never pictured an ideal woman. 
' ' I am waiting for the Lord to create one first, ' ' was the 
novelist's reply. Thackeray evidently was of the same 
opinion regarding heroes. Since, therefore, all men are 
not heroic, he portrayed Rawdon Crawley. Indeed 
Thackeray almost overdid the matter; one is liable to 
exclaim, "What creature indeed can be trusted?" 

Yet apparent as are the touches of cynicism in this 
as well as in any other novel by Thackeray, it would 
be folly to declare the ethical import absent. He was 
disgusted with humanity's eternal strivings for mere 
nothings ; he exposed men and women, not because they 
were always positively wicked, but because they were 
oftentimes positively silly. Osborne gains wealth in 
the tallow business, and his son dies, and the old man 
remains a helpless wreck. Dobbin struggles for Amelia, 
and his reward is her useless self. Becky Sharp strives 
with all the power of her keen but immoral wits, and 
her gain is nothingness. To the mature and thoughtful 
this is all very true, and ethically effective; but Vanity 
Fair, in its efforts to counteract the idealism of Scott, 
is, perhaps, dangerous — especially when seen on the 
stage — to the young and unthinking. For Becky Sharp 
is brilliant, and one is liable to forget her sin in her 
wit. This is, in short, the picaresque in modem terms. 

332 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Pendennis (1849-1850) is intended as a nineteenth- 
century To7n Jones, and does indeed possess much of the 
liberality of the optimistic Fielding. Evidently Thack- 
eray was opposed to the stern conventionalities of the 
society of this era, and in this story of the young man 
making a fool of himself, first in school and later in 
society, then going astray for a while, and at length re- 
turning to the path of sobriety and common sense, the 
novelist voices his protest against the iron-clad rules 
and judgments too often laid down by the sanctified. 
Even here, however, while perhaps secretly defending, 
Thackeray allows that sly cynicism to aid him in making 
his young rascal ridiculous. See Pendennis at school : 

''We have mentioned that he exhibited a certain par- 
tiality for rings, jewelry, and fine raiment of all sorts; 
and it must be owned that Mr. Pen, during his time at 
the university, was rather a dressy man, and loved to 
array himself in splendour. He and his polite friends 
would dress themselves out with as much care in order 
to go and dine at each other's rooms, as other folks 
would who were going to enslave a mistress. They said 
he used to wear rings over his kid gloves, which he al- 
ways denies; but what follies will not youth perpetrate 
with its own admirable gravity and simplicity? That 
he took perfumed baths is the truth ; and he used to say 
he took them after meeting certain men of a very low 
set in hall. In Pen's second year, when ]\Iiss Fotherin- 
gay made her chief hit in London, and scores of prints 
were published of her, Pen had one of these hung in his 
bedroom, and confided to the men of his set how awfully, 
how VTildly, how madly, how passionately, he had loved 
that woman. He showed them in confidence the verses 

333 



ENGLISH FICTION 

that he had written to her, and his brow would darken, 
his eyes roll, his chest heave with emotion as he re- 
called that fatal period of his life, and described the 
woes and agonies which he had suffered. The verses 
were copied out, handed about, sneered at, admired, 
passed from coterie to coterie. There are few things 
which elevate a lad in the estimation of his brother 
boys, more than to have a character for a great and 
romantic passion. Perhaps there is something noble in 
it at all times — among very young men, it is considered 
heroic — Pen was pronounced a tremendous fellow. 
They said he had almost committed suicide : that he had 
fought a duel with a baronet about her. Freshmen 
pointed him out to each other. As at the promenade 
time at two o'clock he swaggered out of college, sur- 
rounded by his cronies, he was famous to behold. He 
was elaborately attired. He would ogle the ladies who 
came to lionise the university, and passed before him on 
the arms of happy gownsmen, and give his opinion upon 
their personal charms, or their toilettes, with the gravity 
of a critic whose experience entitled him to speak with 
authority. J\Ien used to say that they had been walking 
with Pendennis, and were as pleased to be seen in his 
company as some of us would if we walked with a duke 
down Pall Mall. He and the Proctor capped each other 
as they met, as if they were rival powers, and the men 
hardly knew which was the greater." 

Unlike Dickens, Thackeray would not allow himself 
to take these foibles so seriously that he felt compelled 
to rant at them; on the contrary, he points out their 
folly with a condescending smile, and seems to whisper 
slyly, * ' Lo, these fools. ' ' This is the most embarrassing 

334 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

and irritating form of sarcasm ; to smile condescendingly 
upon a fool is to make him realize for the moment that 
he is a fool, and this renders him dangerous. For this 
reason it has frequently and emphatically been stated 
that Thackeray is equal, if not superior, to Swift in 
irony and satire. Swift, however, looked upon men as 
essentially vicious; Thackeray considered them simply 
weak or foolish. He found commendable traits along 
with their laziness, selfishness, thick-headedness, or silli- 
ness, Rawdon Crawley, for instance, is an ignoramus 
lacking most moral principles ; but his devotion to Re- 
becca shows him not a devil, but a miserably deluded 
human being. 

The pathos of disillusionment is a strong point with 
Thackeray. This matter of self-deception and its heart- 
rending consequences furnishes many a bitter touch 
throughout his pages, and causes many unobservant 
readers to consider some portions bitterly cynical which 
are merely truthful. "What a dignity," he remarks, 
"it gives an old lady, that balance at the banker's! 
How tenderly we look at her faults, if she is a relation ! " 

The narrow minded, the petty, the mean are found 
in life, and should therefore be found in fiction; but 
the average man, with the average number of noble 
qualities is to be expected in both. He is not quite so 
conspicuous in Vanity Fair as many readers would 
wish. When Thackeray turned back to still earlier 
days and in his Esmond (1852), The Virginians (1858- 
59), and The Xewcomes (1854^55) wrote something 
more nearly like the typical historical novels, he allowed 
himself a little more sentiment, more genuine and seri- 
ous emotion, and more beauties in the natures of his 

335 



EXC^LISII FICTION 

characters. Here is more kindliness, bore a refresliinar 
Wlief in humanity ; mingled with limnan weaknesses 
are thckse qualities that constitute all-round manliness. 
These books of his maturer years are more true to life 
and humanity than are his earlier stories. These char- 
acters act and spciik more nearly as we should ex- 
pect, because their words and deeds are based on traits 
of character for which Thackeray's statements and de- 
scriptions have fuUr prepared us. Much as he disliked 
the theatricaL Thackeray, like Dickens, had the actor's 
instinct in that he could throw himself into the person- 
ality of his creatures — a snob in the Book of Snobs, an 
adventurer in Barri/ Lyndon, or an eighteenth-century 
gentleman in Esmond, It is this power of his person- 
ality that has made the beings he created permanent 
dwellers in the literary halls of fame. 

Yet how curiously at times he treats these characters. 
His genius, like that of Kabelais and Sterne, delights in 
little surprising twists and cranks, and a certain aristo- 
cratic sh\-ness or reserve emphasizes at least one of these 
twists. How often he assiunes, or tries to assume, the 
guise of an impersonal manipulator entirely outside of 
the story, commenting with mock carelessness or cyni- 
cism upon the deeds and feelings of his characters — 
like a showman with an air of condescension showing 
off his puppets for the edilication, not of himself, but of 
the public. And yet. when he chooses, how solemn he 
can become I The death scene of Colonel Xeweome has 
scarcely been snLrpassed in English literature. 

Plot is by no means Thackeray's forte. He takes his 
time about progressing with the story; he kills off peo- 
ple too conveniently, and sometimes forgets about it 

336 



NIXETEENTn-CEXTURY FICTION 

and brings them back to life. He exhibits hLs charac- 
ters, and, like the aforementioned showman, often steps 
out before the audience to deliver a "lecturette" upon 
them. Either lacking the skill of inventing incidents, 
or not having a taste for them, he uses conversation 
where L)ickens ases action. Ills chapters are frequently 
clever and indeed strong pictures of moments in Ufe; 
but they just as frequently have no close and logical 
connection with their predecessors or successors. This 
is in part due to Thackeray's custom of writing the 
stories in monthly instalments for magazines ; for in the 
only novel of his wholly finished before published, 
Henry Esraond, we have a plot admirable in its unity 
and apparent possibility. 

It may be well for us to examine for a moment this 
frequently praised novel, Henry Esmond, and make 
some brief comparisons between it and other works by 
Thackeray. Not so filled with action and dramatic mo- 
ments as Vanity Fair, nor possessing such a fascinating 
figure as Becky Sharp, it, nevertheless, from an artis-tic 
point of view, remains one of the greater novels of all 
literature. As has been intimated, Thackeray had come 
into the realm of true fiction by the pathway of satire. 
"When we look over the writings of his younger days we 
easily discover that the seamy rather than the normal 
side of social life is revealed, and though the satire — 
often playful and sometimes mingled with pity, as it 
is — is not used as by Le Sage, for creating piquancy or 
as by Swift for a merciless flaying of all mankind, it is 
satire, nevertheless, and in so far it prevents Thackeray 
from presenting a thoroughly true, broad, and whole- 
some picture of humanity. Through such works as the 
22 ' 337 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Deiiceaee story, The Great Hoggarty Diamond, and 
Barry Lyndon, the author advanced to Vanity Fair; 
but even here, in this undoubted masterpiece, we are not 
given a normal picture; for surely the social structure 
of England has never consisted of Becky Sharp and her 
ilk. 

This predilection toward exposing the scamps and 
frauds of life, a predilection doubtless caused in part 
by Thackeray 's early financial losses, continued through- 
out Vanity Fair; but the immense success of this work 
could not but have an effect upon the novelist's view of 
mankind, and when we come to Esmond we find the 
tinge of bitterness or sarcasm has largely disappeared. 
In the opinion of many critics Vanity Fair is his master- 
piece; as a comedy of manners of contemporary life it 
has been spoken of as the greatest work since Tom Jones. 
But, as indicated above, it is not broad enough. The 
group of hypocrites and rascals here assembled do not 
represent an average group from society. Here in- 
deed are intensity, sharply portrayed characters, con- 
siderable invention in incident, and a number of highly 
dramatic scenes. Beckj- Sharp stands, with Uncle Toby 
and Sam "Weller, as one of the clearest characters in 
fiction. But in Esmond Beatrix Castlewood, less bril- 
liant, less striking than Becky, seems considerably 
nearer and truer to the hiunan beings we see about us — 
beings with some good in their hearts, though sadly 
marred by their vanities and tyrannical ambitions. 
And of the other characters in this later novel similar 
statements might be made. Henry Esmond and Lady 
Castlewood belong to those finer natures that bless the 
world; while for even the worst sinners in the story 

338 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Thackeray compels our sympathy rather than our con- 
tempt or hatred. In short, Henry Esmond puts before 
us a much healthier, saner impression of life than the 
more vigorous and perhaps more vivid pages of Vanity 
Fair. 

From a standpoint purely artistic there can be little 
doubt of the supremacy of Esmond. "Its language is a 
miracle of art. ' ' ^ Thackeray early reached a finished 
form of expression; The Hoggarty Diamond, written 
when he was twenty-six, has many of the masterly 
touches we find in his last works. But in Esmond, 
where the eighteenth-century spirit is expressed by the 
general tone of the language, the effective art of this 
style is so remarkable as almost to draw our attention 
away from the plot itself. That plot, also, as has been 
pointed out, may not be equal to some of Thackeray's 
other novels in the number of incidents and exciting 
moments; but in its closeness of structure, its logical 
sequence, and its lack of extraneous matter it undoubt- 
edly shows Thackeray at his best as a plot maker He 
was not alwaj'S careful in striking out the irrelevant; 
in such a work as The Newcomes, which, after all, is 
more nearly a great picture than a story, the structure 
is of such a nature that the book might easily have been 
prolonged indefinitely. Esmond, however, is a work 
drawing to a definite end; it pictures its day, but the 
pictures are of definite use in the making of the story 
or in our final estimate of the characters. This, then, 
is a novel in which neither satire, commentary, nor pic- 
turesque description delays us unduly. 

Doubtless to the end of time Thackeray will be ac- 
6 Frederic Harrison: Forum, Vol. XVIII, p. 329. 

339 



ENGLISH FICTION 

cused of harsh cynicism. "We have but to read Esmond 
and note the unconscious dignity and nobility of its 
hero's sacrificing nature, so thoroughly impressed but 
not pressed upon us, to realize that this novelist came in 
his later years, if not in his earlier, to see the beauty of 
humanity. If further proof were needed, one might 
turn to that very work most often pointed out as cynical, 
Vanity Fair, and there find touches of exquisite pathos. 
Eead of Old Sedley's last moment: 

"One night when she stole into his room she found 
him awake, when the broken old man made his confes- 
sion. 'Oh, Emmy, I 've been thinking we were very 
unkind and unjust to you,' he said, and put out his 
cold and feeble hand to her. She knelt down and 
prayed by his bedside, as he did too, having still hold 
of her hand. When our turn comes, friend, may we 
have such company in our prayers." 

Thus, in the midst of his bitterest satire there is a 
vein of pity for frail mankind. The large sympathy of 
Dickens for everybody and everything may have been 
impossible to Thackeray; he undoubtedly showed a cer- 
tain indifference toward Nature, and he left virtually 
unnoticed the millions of strugglers and sufferers rank- 
ing below the middle classes. But in the field mth which 
this master chose to occupy himself — that of the higher 
social classes — we find in most of the characters, not 
the idealized nature discovered by Dickens's optimistic 
eyes, but a realistic blending of good and bad, a blend- 
ing so human as to be pathetic. 

After all, the portrayal of human nature is the gTcat- 
est work of the artist. It is this that causes innumer- 
able students and critics of literature to look upon 

340 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Thackeray as the main novelist of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. He looked at men and women keenly; he put 
them down without any compromises or changes for the 
sake of ethical or reforming purposes. He gave such 
pictures of mankind as even those disliking his plain- 
ness must confess to be accurate. He smiled so sar- 
castically upon our petty prejudices and meanness that 
we who have read him should feel heartily ashamed of 
our foolishness and determine to be a little wiser. He 
showed men what they might be in terms of what they 
are. 

Austen's influence 

While Dickens and Thackeray were achieving suc- 
cess after success various minor novelists were producing 
work at least interesting and now and then masterly. 
Jane Austen's influence was more and more evident as 
the middle of the nineteenth century approached, and 
nowhere did it exhibit itself more clearly than in these 
writers of lesser fame. In 1843 Macaulay declared her 
the equal of Shakespeare in character delineation; in 
1848 George Henry Lewes said that he would rather 
have written Pride and Prejudice than any of the Wav- 
erley novels. Mrs. Opie 's Simple Tales and Tales of Real 
Life were evidently written with Miss Austen's work 
as an ideal; Miss Ferrier's Inheritance and Marriage, 
which won the admiration of Scott, show the same ability 
to use the smaller incidents of life in well-woven plots; 
Mrs. TroUope used the same sort of domestic themes; 
Baroness Tautphoeus transferred the same methods to 
her pictures of both English and German life, as in 
Quits and The Initials; Mrs. Henry Wood, in her East 

341 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Lynne, created along similar lines a melodramatic story ; 
Dinah Muloch Craik in John Halifax, Gentleman, told a 
story that would have been dear to the heart of Jane Aus- 
ten; Mrs. Gaskell, in her Mary Barton, transferred the 
same realistic methods to her sympathetic investigations 
of the factory classes. 

ELIZABETH GASKELL 

Elizabeth Gaskell is of course best known through her 
quiet village picture, Cranford (1853) ; but it should 
be remembered that in the forties and fifties she was 
being discussed for some other volumes considered far 
more important at the time. The year 1848 was a 
momentous one for the hordes of English workmen who 
gathered in and about London and loudly demanded their 
rights. Charles Kingsley, the almost unknown preacher 
at Eversley, later to become famous as the author of 
Westward Ho (1855), watched the dangerous move- 
ment closely and sympathetically, and at length burst 
forth with his Alton Locke and Yeast, two passionate 
appeals for the betterment of the laborer. It was but 
an indication of the humanitarianism that had reached 
such a glowing heat in the souls of the English-speaking 
people. Charles Dickens was to add to the flame; in 
America Harriet Beecher Stowe was to show a similar 
philanthropy ; Mrs. Gaskell was portraying perhaps more 
truly than any of these the pitiable conditions of the 
toilers. Her work was the result of personal inves- 
tigations ; for both she and her husband, a clergyman, 
lived among the poor, visited the workers' huts, and 
offered words of consolation while gathering data. The 
resulting stories, Mary Barton (1848) and North and 

342 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

South (1855), struck home by their fidelity to life, and 
added much to the wave of humanitarianism that con- 
tinued to the last days of Dickens. 

Elizabeth Gaskell, however, as we all know, pictured 
other conditions than those sordid ones found about 
the mills and factories. The average rural woman of Eng- 
land, the gossipy little social circles of the secluded coun- 
try towns, the workings of the restless human soul where 
physical activity had almost ceased — these were themes 
found highly worthy of her pen in Cranford (1853). 
The old village where conventionality was king, this 
spinster's paradise, is forevermore famous because she, 
like Miss Austen, showed humanity moved by the same 
motives and emotions in the hidden corners of the world 
as in the roaring streets of the mad city. Other stories 
by Elizabeth Gaskell are now almost forgotten ; but her 
Moorland Cottage (1850) was considered so worthy by 
George Eliot that it evidently furnished many a hint 
for The Mill on the Floss; while Ruth (1853), as a 
psychological study, would prove of value and interest 
to many a thoughtful reader of these latter days. This 
book is designed to show the eternal consequences of 
sin, whether the mistake be recent or long past. Its 
text might be Macbeth 's weighty words: ''If it were 
done when it is done it were well it were done quickly. ' ' 
Ruth, a seamstress, is ruined and abandoned by a young 
gentleman. She is about to kill herself, is saved by a 
preacher, and is henceforth reported to be a widow. 
At length, however, the falsehood is discovered; Ruth 
becomes a nun and dies of fever. Here we find a sur- 
prisingly keen probing into motives — the very kind of 
psychology later to be so thoroughly mastered by George 

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Eliot — a psyehology far different from the broad sort 
used by Richardson, but, rather, a subtle harmonizing of 
sequence of incidents with sequence of motives. 

GEORGE BORROW 

There is almost invariably a reaction to every literary 
movement. The quiet home life of such books as Cran- 
ford and the novels of Jane Austen was somewhat irri- 
tating to writers of more vigorous blood, and now and 
again they, consciously or unconsciously, voiced their 
protest against such pictures of the passiveness pro- 
duced by too much civilization. George Borrow, for 
instance, doubtless considered himself as realistic as 
Jane Austen or Elizabeth Gaskell; but he chose in 
Lavengro (1851) and The Romany Bye (1857) the open- 
air, gypsy life where Scott's sentiment for heraldry and 
noblemen had no part, but where the virility, frank- 
ness, and kindness of men who live close to nature in- 
fused a glamour totally different and yet almost as pleas- 
ing. Charles Eeade was another who stood for realism, 
but not of the stuffy parlor sort. In Christie Johnstone 
(1853) for example, he contrasts with the idle rich, 
mumbling their bits of philosophy picked up from 
careless reading, the rough, open life of the Scotch fish- 
wives; while in Never Too Late to Mend (1856) he shows 
the stern life of strong men in Australia. Such books 
he could well declare to be realistic ; his care in securing 
exact facts was unceasing; he rummaged through whole 
libraries to find the actual conditions and environ- 
ments. 



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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

CHARLES KESTGSLEY 

Interested as Charles Kingsley was in the social up- 
heavals of his day, and realistic and vigorous as were 
his descriptions of the miseries of the toilers, he gained 
more lasting fame by the mingling of history and real- 
ism found in his two novels, Hypatia (1853) and West- 
ward Ho (1855). The first of these deals with that 
most suggestive of themes, the momentous struggle be- 
tween Greek and Christian civilization during the fifth 
century. Most poets and novelists have found it more 
to their liking to side with the Greek paganism; but 
Kingsley, a clergyman, preferred the other view. In 
his intense hatred, however, of Roman Catholicism, he 
perverted his history badly to maintain certain points; 
and only the admirable vigor of the work saves it from 
the condemnation of discerning critics. Westward Ho, 
dealing with the English adventures of Elizabeth's day, 
is still more animated; indeed its picture of the em- 
barking of Sir Hiunphrey Gilbert has scarcely ever been 
excelled in bustle and vivid activity. Doubtless Kings- 
ley would have claimed realism for the general char- 
acter of his work ; but this is far nearer Scott than Aus- 
ten, 

CHARLOTTE BRONtE 

Perhaps of all the middle-century reactionaries against 
Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte was the most violent. 
The same year that she published Jane Eyre (1847), her 
sister Emily had written a kind of Gothic romance, 
Wuthering Heights, that doubtless would have dis- 
gusted Miss Austen. Here a man born in shame and 

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denied the privileges of other men long seeks revenge 
in vain, and at length, despairing, but iineonquered, 
starves himself, dies with a sneer on his lips, and is 
buried beside a woman, a side of whose coffin he had 
torn away years before. Charlotte Bronte, while not 
using the weird to such an extent, spoke with as much 
protest. Disgusted with the tameness of Jane Austen, 
she declared for the storm and tragedy of life, the wild 
thrill of the melodramatic. Her work also was in some 
ways a turning back to the Gothic. She pictures a 
maniac, a solitary man walking in a dark garden, the 
commotion of tempests, winds, and lightning. Of course 
all the mysteries are finally cleared, but they are mys- 
terious enough while they last. 

Much of her life had been spent on the moors of 
Yorkshire; the people of her home land were a plain, 
blunt, almost harsh folk; to her, as well as to them, 
other people seemed affected. A portion of her days, 
before she became famous, had been spent in the school- 
room; she came into a broader life too late to gain the 
insight of a master observer of mankind; her view of 
the great world was entirely too limited. All these facts, 
and perhaps her own realization of them, created in 
her an irony at times unsparing. In Jane Eyre (1847) 
and Shirley (1849), both dealing with her own section 
of England, and Villette (1853), based upon her ex- 
perience as a teacher in Brussels, she rebels against an 
overdose of idealism, and delineates friends and foes 
as she thinks they really are. She refuses to picture 
Sir Charles Grandisons and languishing Clarissas. Jane 
Eyre is not of their sort. The young heroine adores 
truth, but abhors comfortable self -righteousness. As an 

346 



I 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

orphan, she is harshly treated; but after securing an 
education and becoming a teacher, she marries the father 
of one of her pupils and is contented. Such a plot has 
been used innumerable times, but the character of the 
woman and the truthfulness to life save even such a 
worn theme from flatness. Intense love, intense hatred, 
intensity in all things — these charge the whole work. 
Jane Eyre has a fascinatingly reckless bearing. When 
asked by a righteous character what she must do to 
escape damnation, she replies, "I must keep in good 
health and not die." We should not be surprised to 
learn that the book was condemned as coarse, irreverent, 
even immoral. And yet, after all, it was but a part 
of the great democratic outcry of the day. Jane her- 
self is simply a democratic, average girl, pretty, but 
not ravishing. Her lover is not quite so sweet as Sir 
Charles Grandison, not quite so ugly as Caliban. Only 
after he loses an eye and a hand in saving his maniac 
wife from a fire does Jane fully realize her love for him. 
The book is of course exaggerated; but it shows re- 
bellion against social conventions ; it speaks for the so- 
called laboring classes; it indicates the silent, bitter re- 
volt going on in millions of the author's contemporaries. 
Shirley (1849) is milder in tone perhaps because 
under the advice of Lewes Charlotte Bronte had read 
Jane Austen more carefully; but she could never curb 
herself to the quietness of such a woman. Miss Austen 
could not have imagined the scornful, wild, untamed 
Shirley Keeldar, the ardent priestess of Nature. In 
her splendid descriptions of Yorkshire life, the author 
does indeed imitate the photographic art of Austen; 
but in trying to place herself under the influence of 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

another observer, she obtained the searching of heart 
of neither Pride and rrcjudice nor her own Jane Eyre. 
In Villette we find her abandoning the advice of 
Lewes and returning to her own personality. This book 
is indeed a Jane Eyre with a Brussels setting. In 
Jane Eyre, however, her protest is outspoken and almost 
violent ; but here is the calmness of despair ; here sorrow 
so evidently outweighs the joy of life that resignation 
born of fatalism seems inevitable. Bronte may use at 
times scenes as exciting as Scott 's ; she may create char- 
acters as vigorous and as full of spirit as any of his; 
but she is a realist, nevertheless — a realist in the analysis 
of emotions, a searcher into motives. She is a fore- 
runner of George Eliot in depicting not only outer but 
inner manners, — manners of thought, settled prejudices, 
modes of viewing life. 

GEORGE ELIOT 

George Eliot (1819-1880) had not only a feminine 
intuition and discernment of details, but a masculine 
reasoning nature. Her mind was stored with a vast 
mass of information ; her study of philosophy had taught 
her to observe closely the cause and the effect of phe- 
nomena; her keen observation of men gave her a per- 
spicuity granted to but few English writers. More im- 
portant, perhaps, than all these was the personality of 
the woman, intolerant of hypocrisy, zealous for right- 
eousness, but full of a longing sympathy for the erring 
and the suffering. 

The early life of Marian Evans was spent in the Mid- 
dle English country, where she was reared and educated 
under the strictest religious training of the evangel- 

348 



NINETEENTH-CENTUHY FICTION 

ical sort. While still but a very young woman, how- 
ever, under the influence of the Brays of Coventry, she 
broke away from the faith of her fathers, translated 
Strauss' Life of Christ, and, much to the bitter resent- 
ment of her family, became decidedly radical in re- 
ligious matters. But it must not be thought that her 
belief in God was destroyed; it was merely changed 
and perhaps strengthened. Her husband and biog- 
rapher, Mr. Cross, says : ' ' We generally began our daily 
reading with some chapter from the Bible — parts of 
which she particularly enjoyed reading aloud. Her 
deep, rich voice, with its organ-like notes, gave new 
meaning and beauty to the most familiar passages." 
In her religion, as in all other things, she was an in- 
vestigator, and as she progressed mentally and morally, 
her views on the matter underwent changes that seemed 
dangerously radical to those who took their faith ready- 
made from the theologians. That she was open minded 
to all opinions was always evident. "Open to convic- 
tion?" she once exclaimed. "Indeed, I should think 
so. I am open to conviction on all points except dinner 
and debts. I hold that the one must be eaten and the 
other paid. These are my only prejudices." 

It was this refusal to accept laws and customs with- 
out questioning that doubtless led her to brave conven- 
tionality in living with Mr. Lewes without the formality 
of a marriage ceremony. Lewes 's wife had twice been 
guilty of adultery; but the law would not grant him a 
divorce because he had forgiven the first offense, and 
had received her again into his home. It was this techni- 
cality that prevented his marriage to George Eliot, and 
during the twenty-five years of their union till his 

349 



ENGLISH FICTION 

death in 1878, England came to look upon them as 
truly man and wife. That she had respect, if not a 
servile reverence for the marriage ceremony, is shown, 
by her legal union two years later with John W. Cross. 

It was Lewes who turned her genius into the channels 
of fiction. As an editor of the Westmitister Review, 
she had written learned articles of genuine depth and 
originality of view; but she had displayed a close in- 
terest in fiction as early as 1856 by writing sharp and 
daring reviews of the shallow novels written by women 
of her day. 

The next year she published in Blackwood's her Sad 
Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton, and her ca- 
reer as a storj^-writer was begun. Scenes from Clerical 
Life, appearing in 1858, contained the above-mentioned 
piece, Mr. GilfiVs Love Story, and Janet's Repentance, 
and this collection met with such a welcome that all 
doubts as to her ability were dissipated. Now came 
Adam Bede (1859), followed by The Mill on the Floss 
in 1860, and Silas Marner in 1861, and English readers 
could confidently and accurately state what her salient 
characteristics were. Suddenly, without warning, there 
came a change of scenes, characters, and methods in Ro- 
mola (1863), and the British public was indeed surprised. 
In Felix Holt (1866), Middlemarch (1871) and Daniel 
Deronda (1876), the vein was deeper, the philosophy a 
little darker, the life a little more shadowed with sacrifice 
and sorrow than in the earlier works; as she herself 
said, it was an old woman writing these later books; 
never again could she quite obtain the cheer of her 
earlier views. 

Elizabeth Gaskell had no small influence upon those 
350 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

first attempts in fiction. The Scenes from Clerical Life 
is much like Gaskell's quiet stories; The Mill on the 
Floss is like Moorland Cottage in that it deals with the 
tendencies of childhood training. But George Eliot 
soon discovered that Mrs. Gaskell made contrasts entirely 
too vivid — that too many of her characters were alto- 
gether good or altogether bad. She admired Dickens's 
work; for, with all its exaggeration, it was founded on 
keen and sympathetic observation. Under such influ- 
ences she seems to have resolved to be a sort of Rem- 
brant, portraying people plainly, even if ugliness must 
be mingled with the beautiful. She had great sympathy 
with the life she had seen in her girlhood; she had no 
snobbish ideas about the plain people of Warwickshire; 
and she pictured their modes and customs and repeated 
their ideas with accuracy, but with no hint of conde- 
scension. "Whether in the miser's hut or in the great 
country mansion, she was entirely at home, and she 
looked upon race, sex, and sect with an admirable ab- 
sence of prejudice. In Adam Bede, for instance, Eng- 
land has its first honest and sympathetic picture of the 
Methodists ; in Daniel Deronda we find her attempting 
the delineation of a faultless hero in her effort to create 
liberalism toward the Jew. 

Perhaps it was this intense sympathy that prevented 
success in her efforts to adopt Thackeray 's social satire ; 
the sober philosophy of her later works is much truer 
to her. Perhaps, too, it is the cause of her tendency 
to sermonize in her earlier books — bits of prose that 
would be worthy of high appreciation elsewhere, but 
which, in her novels, prove rather inartistic interrup- 
tions. But these things make clear one point; if she 

351 



ENGLISH FICTION 

could not believe in orthodox Christianity she was steeped 
in its self-sacrificing spirit. It is this that causes a 
sense of tragedy to brood over all her stories, and it is 
this spirit, too, that gives to some of her pages a pathos 
truer than any found in the pages of her contemporaries. 
Her pathos, it may readily be discovered, is not the crea- 
tion of any rhetorical agency or any intrusion of her 
own views, but is the inevitable result of certain inci- 
dents or situations which the nature of this or that 
character has brought to pass in some strife of the soul. 
We may note here, also, the same trait in her humor; 
any attempt to separate it from the character presenting 
it is vain and ruinous. 

As George Eliot approached middle life she seemed 
to be returning somewhat to her childhood love for 
Scott; furthermore, it appears that at the same time 
she came under the inifluence of Auguste Comte, the 
French thinker. The result was a sort of idealism in 
Middlemarch and Deronda very different from the real- 
ism of Adam Bede. Throughout all her changes, how- 
ever, her faith in the power of little things, the might 
of the commonplace, never wavered. She may have 
founded some of her special theories upon the ideas of 
Comte; but she thrust home certain great beliefs com- 
mon to all nations, such as the wages of sin is death, 
or he who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind. 
Such large general axioms will forever prove good ma- 
terial for fiction; they are grounded in the heart of 
mankind. In her use of these general principles she 
pursued her investigations as scientifically as the great 
Darwin, whose Origin of Species appeared the same 
year as Adcrni Bede. Both the scientist and the novelist 

352 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

looked keenly at cause and effect ; both showed the subtle 
process of change resulting from neglected small forces 
in the past; both reached their conclusions unsparingly 
and with mathematical precision. 

This ethical import is never absent from her work; 
it is scarcely ever absent from any masterpiece; per- 
haps the day may come when critics, instead of con- 
demning it, may deem it inseparable from great art. 
In George Eliot early sins or early training will come 
back sometime to demand their harvest. The inner man 
will, in spite of all, betray himself some day in the outer 
man. Indeed we have here the theory as to the power 
of the subconscious mind so widely exploited in the 
twentieth century. This woman suddenly brings be- 
fore us — quietly enough it is true, but impressively — 
some incident that hints of the moral tendency of the 
character under observation, and then she begins to 
unroll, carefully and calmly, the scroll of destiny. She 
has infinite sympathy for the victim of destiny — ^that 
is, the destiny which each man's own nature condenms 
him to — but she is merciless in the unrolling. If the 
scroll shows a weakness or stain in the soul of the vic- 
tim, that weakness reappears time after time with ever- 
broadening surface until the whole career is brought 
to shame and ruin. This is indeed tragedy — that pos- 
sible tragedy born with the soul of every man. Middle- 
march is perhaps the most sorrowfully tragic of all, 
because most often occurring in the history of mankind. 
A girl with high ideals and a romantic desire to be a 
martyr for a cause, when brought to the test proves to 
herself her utter inability to stand it. Far back in 
the life of herself and of her husband a mistake in. 
23 353 



ENGLISH FICTION 

training or in thinking had been made, and after many- 
days that error cried out with the voice of doom. 

Those who have read George Eliot know, however, 
that all is not darkness. Silas Marner suffered long 
because of the hasty passion of his youth ; but at length 
a little child led his soul back to the light. In Adam 
Bede and Middlemarch, and all the others, for that 
matter, the stern chastisement of fate, inevitable, though 
long deferred, cleanses the souls of these beings of 
George Eliot's imagination, and they come forth puri- 
fied, calmed, and filled with an understanding and sym- 
pathy impossible before. 

It is this appreciation of the complexity of life, the 
recognition of the good and the evil tendencies in each 
soul, the clear, accurate report of the unending struggle 
between these two natures, the highly accented person- 
ality of the figures that pass to and fro in her pages, 
the high idealism of so many of these characters, the 
unswerving course of her analysis of motives, that will 
not allow George Eliot's name to be forgotten. And 
greater than all else are her intense sympathy for the 
righteous aspirations of man and her noble belief in their 
possibilities. 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence. ... 

. . . May I reach 

That purest heaven; be to other souls 

The cup of strength in some great agony; 

Enkindle generous ardor. 



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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

REALISM VS. ROMANTICISM 

As has been stated, the nineteenth century was an 
age of protest in fiction, as in almost everything else. 
Hardly had a novelist illustrated his theory of life and 
art when some other writer entered the arena to pro- 
test and to display his own theory and art. Realism 
might seem for a day to be conquering, when suddenly 
some writer would burst into fame with a book as ro- 
mantic as anything produced by Scott. In the midst 
of the middle-century realism, for instance, came Black- 
more 's Lorna Doone (1869), a story containing the very 
essence of the romantic; while George Eliot was still 
busy mapping out the history of a human soul, William 
Black entered with his Princess of Thiile (1873) and 
other gorgeous romances making much use of love and 
pathos. A little later. Rider Haggard showed his ex- 
treme reaction from realism with his weird stories of 
the ancient East; and at leng-th William Morris, poet, 
novelist, and confirmed dreamer, cried out bitterly 
against too much picturing of the painfully true. 

ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

Within the field of realism itself there was protest 
and strife. Anthony Trollope (1815-1882) was one of 
those within that field who found much to displease his 
artistic nature. He declared that Dickens created vice 
in order that he might have something to attack; he 
did not relish what he considered the impossible humor 
of Boz; he liked some phases of Thackeray's method and 
style, and even copied them, but he objected to Thack- 
eray's satire. He sought to show real life and average 

355 



ENGLISH FICTION 

people, and possessing a milder nature than either Dick- 
ens or Thackeray, he did not reproduce the animation 
of the one or the pungency of the other. He wrote so 
rapidly and so regularly in his more than thirty books 
tliat he necessarily produced much that Avas common- 
place ; but he did do admirable work in delineating cer- 
tain characters of a high nobility. Like Thackeray, he 
allowed certain figures to reappear time after time, and 
thus, as they developed in book after book, the English 
reading public came to know them as they had known 
few fictitious personages. In The Warden (1855), 
Barchester Towers (1857), Dr. Thome (1858), Fram- 
leij Parsonage (1861), The Last Chronicle of Barset 
(1867)— all known as ''the Cathedral Stories"— the 
same tA'pes of country- clergy and gentry about the 
old cathedral town of Barchester are sho%vn time after 
time in all the phases of their physical, intellectual, and 
moral growth or degeneracy, Trollope's sustaining 
power is admirable ; his ability to retain our interest for 
a particular type of social life through book after book is 
proof enough of it ; these clerical characters used repeat- 
edly have come to be recognized as among the best in the 
world's fiction. 

The pictures of the social life he chooses to describe 
are often minutely detailed and more realistic perhaps, 
because more true, than similar attempts on the part 
of Dickens. Doubtless Trollope felt this; for he does 
not hesitate to take a fling at Dickens, Carlyle, the edi- 
tors of the London Times, and others whom he looks 
upon as "sentimental reformers." These clergymen 
and workers of his are plain men of strength or of 
weakness, often henpecked, more often uninspired, some- 

356 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

times positive sinners. And, with such extremely honest 
realism go some convincing pictures of every-day Eng- 
lish women — women very pleasant sometimes, very cross 
at other times, and particularly dangerous with the 
tongue at all times. The plots are generally conven- 
tional enough, with sufficient love-making to hold the 
public, and enough suspense at times as to which one 
of two sweethearts a lover may choose; but it is the 
people, not the plot, that attract — these undeniably hu- 
man people, who pass slowly before us as they go about 
their petty schemes and intrigues. This is indeed the 
sort of work Jane Austen would have admired, and again 
the sort that Scott would have admitted beyond his pow- 
ers. 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

6. K. Chesterton has said, ' ' The glory of George Mere- 
dith is that he combined subtlety with primal energy; 
he criticized life without losing hLs appetite for it. 
In him alone being a man of the world did not mean being 
a man disgusted with the world. "^ Meredith (1828- 
1909), the last of the Victorians, was not extensively 
read, and was often misunderstood by his contempo- 
raries. His Bro"OTiing-like style was something of a bar- 
rier between him and the general public; he himself 
said, "The English people know nothing about me." 
And yet his thoughts and theories were sufficiently sim- 
ple. But those thoughts and theories, while simple, 
were not very orthodox, and the conservative British 
refused to follow him. Speaking of his people, he said, 
shortly before his death, "There has always been some- 

^ Illustrated London Neu>8, May 22, 1909. 

357 



ENGLISH FICTION 

thing antagonistic between them and me. With book 
after book it was always the same outcry of censure and 
disapproval. The first time or two I minded it. Since, 
I have written to please myself." 

And what types pleased himself ? Half Irish and half 
Welsh, his nature, Celtic to the core, should have pos- 
sessed much of the poetic, and that it did is evidenced 
in his books of verse ; but in his novels the poetic was 
rigidly restrained ; in his prose he became the keen-eyed 
observer of the weaknesses of humanity — especially of 
men. He saw certain flaws in our individual and social 
structure, and, showing us these things with subtle art, 
he doubtless thought to make us better ; but his art was 
a bit too subtle for his day. Sentiment plays small 
part in his stories — the intellectual Mrs. Carlyle de- 
plored the lack of tears in his work — he refuses to 
allow sentimental mist to obscure his view of life. So 
close indeed is he to life that he often chose real men 
and women as the people of his pages — Admiral Maxse 
as Beauchamp, in Beauchamp's Career; the German 
agitator, Ferdinand Lassalle, as Sigismund Alvan in the 
Tragic Comedians; Caroline Norton, the granddaughter 
of Richard Sheridan, as the heroine in Diana of the 
Crossivays. However romantic Meredith's soul may 
have been naturally, he resolutely kept his feet squarely 
upon a very earthy earth. 

Meredith began his fiction just a little earlier than 
George Eliot. The Ordeal of Richard Feverel appeared 
in the same year as Adam Bede; then followed such 
works as Evan Harrington (1861), Beauchamp's Ca- 
reer (1876), The Egoist, (1879), Diana of the Cross- 
ways (1885) and The Amazing Marriage (1895). 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

These works puzzled or offended tlie old-fashioned — es- 
pecially the men. The passion of Feverel, the social 
satire of Evan Harrington, the "gorgeous humanity" 
of Harry Richmond, the merciless analysis of Tlie Egoist, 
were beyond the conception of many who trod tlie beaten 
path of tliought, and those who appreciated Meredith 
came to be looked upon as belonging to the same affected 
group as the Browningites or the Whitmanites. 

It requires attention to read George Meredith. He 
is psychological always. Like George Eliot, he cares 
little for "an audience impatient for blood and glory." 
He deals with the life of the soul as well as with the 
life of the body; and, like Eliot, he shows the scientific 
spirit of his era by his merciless delving into causes 
and effects, and by his refusal to take the venerated sen- 
timents for granted. It was his effort to overthrow 
some of these hoary theories — especially those dealing 
with love and the nature of woman — that caused him 
to create for English fiction a new type of heroine — a 
healthy, energetic being, glorying in her own person- 
ality, and fighting hard to preserve this individuality. 
These women of his have very decided ideas as to the 
kind of man they could love, and they do not hesitate 
to cast aside those who weary them. It is plain that 
the creator of such women was not to be deceived by 
the hypocrisy hidden under any form of namby-pam- 
by sentimentalism. He once stated that he hated those 
authors who "fiddle harmonics on the strings of sen- 
sualism"; and yet he himself may at times have gone 
a little too far in the other direction, and fiddled 
discords on the strings of individualism. He preached 
against the present code of sex relations as a relic of 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

barbarism; this romantic business of swearing eternal 
love seemed to him nonsense. In The Egoist, for in- 
stance, Willoughby thinks himself deeply in love; but 
to the author it is simply a weak animalism quivering 
in the presence of fresh beauty. 

And how fresh, in both soul and body, are these 
"beauties." These physically ideal women of Mere- 
dith's possess much of the charm that always accom- 
panies perfect health ; but at the same time, they possess 
the equal charm of an independent and self-controlled 
spirit. From the first to the last of his novels his hero- 
ines are animated, superbly alive. In his last work, 
Celt and Saxon, left unfinished at his death, we find 
such descriptions as this: "Yonder bare hill she came 
racing up, with a plume in the wind ; she was over the 
long brown moor, look where he would, and vividly was 
she beside the hurrying beck, where it made eddies and 
chattered white. ' ' Man 's egotistical treatment of woman 
is a favorite theme with Meredith, and in the contest 
with such feminine wills as he creates, man has de- 
cidedly the worst of it. 

As mentioned before, his seemingly obscure way of 
dealing with characters and in expressing himself, has 
discouraged or repulsed many readers. His earlier 
work shows him to have been a master of the melodies 
of the English language; but as in the course of his 
writing he found himself not appreciated, he doubt- 
less began to write "to please himself," and too often, 
not unlike Carlyle, used the odd instead of the obviously 
beautiful. Perhaps, with Celtic eccentricity, he loved 
an aphorism too much. Of wit he possessed his share; 
but sometimes it sounds a trifle far-fetched. His humor 

360 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

is of a peculiar type — never loud-mouthed, a half-seri- 
ous, half-aside humor, which points out the inconsisten- 
cies of the passing procession. Pathos is not absent^- 
pathos not of the sentimental type, but the pathos found 
in modern tragedy, wherein violent physical death is 
no longer considered necessary or half so bitter as men- 
tal or moral torture. Meredith gets his characters into 
just such a state of torture — an agony brought on by 
some hasty act or sin, and then comes a period of purga- 
torial purification from which the soul comes forth per- 
haps sadder, but certainly wiser. 

In all these pictures, Meredith evidently attempts to 
be absolutely correct. He undoubtedly is a true realist ; 
but he discerns the fact that realism in itself is worth- 
less unless through its truthfulness it brings forth cer- 
tain bits of universal truth, or certain great general 
principles of life. But whether for all his truthfulness 
and earnestness, Meredith will ever have numerous lit- 
erary disciples, or even an extensive reading, is very 
doubtful. As Chesterton has said in the article quoted 
in a previous page, *'he was as human as Shakespeare, 
and also as affected as Shakespeare." To the tyrannical 
and all-important "average reader," the affectedness is 
entirely too prominent, and as it is with Browning, so 
it may be with Meredith: his theories and ideas may 
have to sift down to the general masses through the 
medium of a select body of enthusiasts. 

THOMAS HARDY 

In the magazine sketch mentioned twice in our study 
of Meredith, there is the following contrast between 
Meredith and Thomas Hardy (1840—): "Mr. Hardy 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

is wholly of our ot\ti generation, wliieli is a very un- 
pleasant thing to be. He is shrill and not mellow. He 
does not worship the unknown God: he knows the God 
(or thinks he knows the God), and dislikes him. He 
is not a pantheist: he is a pandiabolist. The great 
agnostics of tlie Victorian Age said there was no purpose 
in nature. Mr. Hardy is a mystic ; he says there is an 
evil purpose. All this is as far as possible from the 
plenitude and rational optimism of Meredith." 

There is much truth in these statements. Hardy per- 
sistently asks us, after he has shown us a tortured vic- 
tim of environment or heredity: "Is this the gentle 
mercy of your Nature and your Nature's God?" "Did 
this being come 'trailing clouds of glory' from your all 
loving Father?" The bitterness of his question lies in 
the fact that if we look about us at the wrecks of hu- 
manity — wrecks innocent of their own destruction — we 
can not answer him. 

Hardy is the best English disciple of what we may 
term the school of naturalism in fiction. Fielding would 
not leave affairs to fate, but manipulated his plot to 
please himself — and Tom Jones; Dickens, in his kind- 
ness of heart, either brought early happiness or allowed 
his creatures to suffer and sacrifice so nobly that we 
are gratified with all the delayed rewards finally 
coming to them; Thackeray, while avoiding heroes, 
avoids also an outright answer to the personal responsi- 
bility of his sinners; George Eliot takes the trouble to 
tell exactly what a certain being does; but she fails to 
tell where he got a certain personality, and why that 
personality acts in this particular manner. The natur- 
alistic novelist of the last decades of the nineteenth een- 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

tury considers all these methods rather immature and 
half hearted. This new student of life eliminates every 
hint of freedom from his characters; they cannot be 
held responsible; they are the victims of determinism. 
With just such a purpose in mind Hardy marshals his 
events in such a manner that fate seems animated and 
indeed raging with animosity and cruelty. 

Now, it would seem that to picture fate in this mood 
Hardy should choose the complex life of the city, where 
far more often than in the country, men in their struggle 
against adversity, sin, and failure, become tinged with 
pessimism. Instead, Hardy chooses the peasant life of 
Wessex. Almost despairing of gaining the truth about 
the higher classes, whose souls are veneered with con- 
ventionality, he turns to these people so much closer to 
the earth, of whom he can give a direct description, and 
know it to be correct. With these as specimens of 
genuine humanity, he proceeds in the most pleasant 
of languages to tell the most unpleasant of truths. 
His pictures are realistic to the last detail ; but they are 
as delicately tinted, as finished, as polished as masterly 
art can make them. 

Note the underlying ideas of his greater stories. A 
Tair of Blue Eyes (1873) deals with the seemingly 
fruitless striving of an individual against circumstances ; 
The Return of the Native (1878), with its sinister touch 
and its vague pessimism, seems infused with the idea 
that life is a thing to be put up with as a rather lamen- 
table fact than as a thing to be thankful for ; Tess of the 
D'Urhervilles (1891) apparently enlarges upon the same 
idea; while Jude, the Obscure (1895) is so extremely 
suggestive of this view that Hardy repulsed by means of 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

it many a former admirer. In such works we hear the 
note of ancient pagan fatalism — the note that in spite of 
two thousand years of Christian teaching still makes 
Hamlet and Lear so deeply expressive of our inner 
souls. 

Tess is doubtless Hardy's most masterly piece of 
fiction. Here a woman falls as an innocent victim of 
circumstances, heredity, national and family traits. 
She sins and sins deeply; but Hardy contends for her 
absolute innocence. The gods are against her. She 
makes the wrong sort of marriage ; in order to save her 
family she does what she knows to be wrong and hate- 
ful; a taint in her ancestry asserts itself in a moment 
of rashness, and she commits murder. Her death is 
a payment for a long series of evils running far back 
into the obscure past of her people. This is the fast- 
growing idea of the mighty power of the customs, hab- 
its, and thoughts of our forefathers upon us, their com- 
paratively innocent victims — the undying, though often 
long-hidden power of what some thinkers are pleased 
to call the subconscious mind. To such an observer as 
Hardy, and in such themes as he chooses, the irony of 
fate is sure to be very evident. The wrong thing seems 
always to happen at the wrong time for Tess. Her 
most important letters are delayed; when, at a perilous 
hour, she seeks help at a certain home, she finds the 
family away ; she meets her darker angel when he should 
have been elsewhere. The thought is forced home upon 
us : Here is a woman who, with all her sins, should 
stand blameless before God. It is pessimism of the deep- 
est dye ; the God whom Hardy sees does not offer the con- 
solation of tlie Christian God. Indeed this novelist dis- 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

cems the fact that despite all our high talk of a Loving 
Father, we all, high and low, still worship as pagans. 
And, according to him, it is very well; for surely the 
worship of the sun and nature, he might contend, is as 
sane a religion as the worship of this strange modem 
God. 

To such a man Nature must mean much. In Far 
from the Madding Crowd, Tess, and the others, the 
woods, the moors, the sunset are never used as mere 
backgrounds; but instead there is something of the an- 
cient Anglo-Saxon personification of the things of Na- 
ture. Her various elements become almost dramatis 
personee; the trees and the river look upon Tess with 
inquisitive and reproachful eyes; the moors and the 
plains awake like a vast monster from sleep ; the exter- 
nals voice the soul of the thoughtful or tortured human 
being that stands so lonely among them. 

All this, be it remembered, is expressed with a dis- 
tinction of language rarely equaled in nineteenth-cen- 
tury prose. The very art of the message is liable to 
blind us to the hopelessness of that message. In our 
enchantment we are apt to overlook the fact that Hardy, 
while expressing much truth, is not telling the whole 
truth. We are not entirely slaves to Fate. We all 
feel a certain responsibility for our acts, and the very 
fact that we possess such a feeling is proof that we have 
the power to correct those tendencies which racial or 
family sins have thrust upon us. Surely we are not 
mere puppets in the hands of an arbitrary Manipu- 
lator ; by our very refusal to helieve it we show that we 
are not — mentally at least — helplessly enslaved. Nev- 
ertheless, think what we may about Hardy's tinge of 

365 



ENGLISH FICTION 

pessimism, we must admit the searehiug keenness of his 
investigation of sin and its result, the powerful nature 
of his methods, tlie uneompromisiug attitude with whieh 
he faces truth, and. above all else, perhaps, the art with 
whieh he expresses his subtle and deeply suggestive 
thoughts. 

STE^'ENSON 

It is evident that the main tendency in nineteenth- 
century tiction was toward realism; and yet we almost 
close our study of the period with the most romantic 
novelist since Scott. Robert Louis Stevenson (1850- 
180-1 ) rejected the pessinusm that in other writers had 
resulted from a cold, logical anah^sis of conditions and 
the luiderlying causes; he loved the element of chance 
in all adventures; he preferred to draw our wearied 
souls away from the burden of humdrum life, and to 
lead us out into the care-free realm of adventure and 
luck. 

During all those years of the nineteenth century 
romance had not been dead. The "scientific" trend of 
all thought had simply caused realism to overshadow it. 
Even tlie realists possessed touches of the romantic; 
Charles Dickens, George Eliot, and Thomas Hardy were 
not chary of it ; in the closing yeai*s of the century that 
masterly piece of fiction Du Planner's Trilhy, with all 
its realistic pictures was heavily tinged with romance. 
The novel of crime, or of himian shrewdness pitted 
against crime, such as we tind in "Wilkie Collins and 
Conan Doyle, is oftentimes but a revised form of the 
Gothic t%-pe of old. Collins 's Woman in White (1860), 
The Moonstone (1868), and others of the same nature, 

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

make extreme use of the mysterious, and the ingenuity 
required in withholding the explanation to the last 
chapter even surpasses the ingenuity used in inventing 
the ghosts, enchanted helmets, avenging skeletons, and 
talking portraits of the eighteenth century. The ro- 
mances of Blackmore, Black, and William Morris have 
already been commented upon; they and their numer- 
ous imitators prove the permanence of the adventure- 
loving and the mystery-loving nature in the English- 
speaking people. 

But beyond doubt the prince of these modem ro- 
mancers is R^jbert Louis Stevenson. Critics whose 
mania is realism may rail at his lack of cold-blooded 
" inevitableness, " and may declare that he, like Scott, 
set back fiction a half century; but luckily such entires 
are not the only readers of novels, and a vast multitude 
of readers of "R. L. S." find not only healthful, sane 
entertainment in his books, but also reasons for nobler 
opinions of mankind, and inspiration and hope for our 
ultimate victory over adversity and wrong. If he wrote 
stories that could not have happened, we are only 
sorry that they could not. After all, we should never 
forget that the novelist is under no obligation to at- 
tempt a solution of the riddle of the universe. A novel 
is first of all a story; any other element is but an ac- 
cessory. 

Your true realist abhors the very suggestion of chance ; 
Stevenson loved it. From birth to death he was a boy, 
and he had a boy's keen pa.ssion for venturesome esca- 
pades and for primitive life with all its daring, hard- 
ships, freedom, and closeness to Nature. Adventure 
for its own sake was ever present. His heroes, while 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

figuring in most hair-raising incidents, are the most 
lucky of men ; they are the camels that go through the 
eye of the needle with only their hump of vanity slightly 
damaged. Like Poe, Stevenson feels under no neces- 
sity of turning these gratifying results into ethical les- 
sons. ' ' Oh, for a life on the Spanish Main ! " he seems 
to cry; let psychology and moral preaching go hang. 
Apparently he could say, with Omar Khayyam : 

Myself, when young did eagerly frequent 
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument 

About it and about: but evermore 
Came out by the same door wherein I went. 

In such a type of fiction love need not play an im- 
portant part. Indeed, in Treasure Island (1883) and! 
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) it is entirely absent, 
and yet what stories they are! His admirable ability 
in the use of action and suspense carries us on and on; 
while a certain Defoe-like display of accuracy makes the 
narrative seem ''just so"; we could not possibly wish 
it to be otherwise. He adds to the apparent truthful- 
ness of the tale by allowing one or two characters who 
were actually on the ground — or on deck — ^to tell it as 
they themselves saw it. That Stevenson could have 
been a realist is indicated partly by these touches of 
accurate description and detailed reporting, partly by 
the keen analysis of character in which he now and 
then indulged — such as those found in The Master of 
Ballantrae (1889) and in Kidnapped (1886). That 
fine scene where Alan Breck, after killing his enemies, 
as they rush upon him in the roundhouse, and after 
putting his sword through their dead bodies, sits down 

368 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

and bursts forth into a victorious song, made up on the 
spur of the moment, is one of the most realistic and at 
the same time dramatic episodes in our literature. 

Stevenson aided greatly in the modern revival of his- 
torical romance; but at no time did he seek the exact- 
ness which seems to be the pride of so many followers 
of this school. Imagination and fancy supplied his lack 
of historical research ; he purposely avoided descriptions 
of battles that he could easily have pictured; but 
clear and hearty descriptions of social conditions in the 
old days he could present with all the impressiveness 
that either romanticist or realist could desire. Kid- 
napped and its sequel, David Balfour, are sufficient 
proof of his ajj)ility to make the past live in all its vivid 
colors. 

Stevenson seems to have possessed a dual personality. 
As Dr. AVilliam Lyon Phelps says: "He was a combi- 
nation of the Bohemian and the Covenanter; he had 
all the grac&s of the one and the bed-rock moral earnest- 
ness of the other ; ' the world must one day return to the 
word ' ' duty, ' ' ' said he, * and be done with the word ' ' re- 
ward." ' He was the incarnation of the happy union 
of virtue and vivacity." Puritanical in his own con- 
duct, he could not but admire scamps if they were only 
reckless enough. Not their wickedness but their daring 
appealed to him. That he perceived and thoroughly 
understood the danger of such duality is proved, of 
course, in his Dr. JehxjU and Mr. Hyde. This may be 
romance ; doubtless Meredith and Hardy were disdain- 
fully sure it could not have happened; but nevertheless 
has anything nearer the truth ever been vrritten in all 
the world's fiction? It illustrates one of the funda- 
24 369 



ENGLISH FICTION 

mental principles of humanity's struggle toward right- 
eousness : a little yielding is a dangerous thing. 

All this is written in one of the most remarkable 
styles of the nineteenth century. Perhaps we should 
say one of the most remarkable groups of styles. For 
Stevenson made a subtle difference in his expression to 
agree with the peculiar character of each story. Read 
his main narratives from the earliest to the latest — An 
Inland Voyage (1878), Travels with a Donkey (1879), 
Treasure Island (1883), The Silverado Squatters 
(1884), Kidnapped (1886), Dr. Jekyll (1886), The 
Master of Ballantrae (1889) — and note how a certain 
distinction of style accompanies each one. Some one 
has spoken of the ** homely, hushed phraseology' of Dr. 
Jekyll, "greatly enhancing the ghastly subject matter." 
The admirable fitness of his medium for the narrative 
is no less evident in the others. Stevenson has some- 
times been criticized for displaying his style — for 
''strutting," as some would have it; yet extreme sim- 
plicity — a simplicity that harmonizes admirably with 
the primitive nature of many of his tales — is far more 
often found. That style was the result of immense ex- 
perimental labor ; its rhythm and its subtle beauty were 
the outcome of many a consciously toilsome hour. 

His disciples and imitators have been numerous. The 
works of such men as S. R. Crockett, Stanley Weyman, 
Anthony Hope Hawkins, J. M. Barrie, John Watson, 
and Conan Doyle are testimonials of his abiding influ- 
ence. That the influence is abiding may not be pleas- 
ing to certain authors and critics who would like to be 
looked upon as highly ''scientific" in their observations 
and methods; but his influence seems destined to last 

370 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

long, nevertheless. Stevenson's whole-souled optimism 
is a stimulus to those who are sadly wise as to the real- 
ities of life; his own courage and his admiration for 
courage are contagious ; he refused to look upon men 
as mere puppets manipulated upon a fatalistic stage. 
He found life a very happy thing. 

GISSENG 

George Gissing (1857-1903) has frequently been 
dubbed "pessimist" and "abject realist." If by pes- 
simist and realist be meant one who looks at life 
squarely, pictures it as it is, and refuses to cover a 
lamentable fact with a mask of optimism, Gissing must, 
indeed, be classed as such. 

Doubtless the circumstances of George Gissing 's life 
impelled him to the \VTiting of books that make "somber 
reading." His earlier days were an unceasing struggle 
against poverty; and he was handicapped with a deli- 
cate physique. Some of his earlier writing was done in 
a cellar room with the light coming through a flat grat- 
ing in an alley ; money was so scarce that the finding of 
a sixpence on the street filled him with a sudden exulta- 
tion never forgotten; the buying of a book often 
meant a bread-and-water diet for forty-eight hours. A 
prisoner among sordid scenes which to his naturally 
dreamy and (as some have declared) idealistic soul 
were utterly distasteful, he inevitably expressed the bit- 
terness within him. Both he and Dickens — ^to whom he 
owed much — presented life as they really saiv it; but 
they saw it in very different ways. 

The result was what might have been expected. The 
Englishman and the American love the truth — espe- 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

cially if it be about somebody else. They do not wax 
enthusiastic over presentations of the black facts of their 
own national life. Gissing, therefore, long had but a 
slender following. Look over the list of his novels and 
books of short stories: Demos (1886), Thyrza (1887), 
A Life's Morning (1888), The Nether World (1889), 
New Gruh Street (1891), The Odd Woman (1893), 
Eve's Bansom, (1895), The Crown of Life (1899) ; few 
indeed are those that gained a notably wide reading. 
This is not to the author's discredit; it reflects, rather, 
upon the nature of an audience which, apparently, was 
unwilling to face the painful truths about itself. Grim 
realist as Gissing may have been, he never looked upon 
the mere facts of existence as all in all. His books are 
not mere history; they are an interpretation of history 
as well, and, unlike Zola, he does not allow his reader to 
forget that at the same moment the beautiful was ex- 
isting. One of his last books, The Grotvn of Life, is 
as full of spiritual uplift as many a novel written by 
an outright idealist. In The Year of Jubilee the mo- 
notony, the dulled emotions, the slow death of soul 
could have been portrayed only by a man whose heart 
had been stirred by the sordid life about him. Eve's 
Bansom might serve as another instance of the novelist 's 
personal interest and sympathy for mankind. A man 
sacrifices himself for a girl ; she accepts the sacrifice un- 
thinkingly, gladly, and goes her way ; he has left to him 
only the thorn of the rose. Yet, even here there is a 
touch of idealism ; for Gissing shows the wounded man 's 
realization that the pain was worth while, that the ex- 
perience, the insight, the revelation of himself and of 
others are worth gaining. The Crown of Life, men- 

372 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

tioned above, indicates still more clearly his ever-grow- 
ing tendency toward a more open expression of this 
idealism. Love is the crown ; it is worth all the strug- 
gle, the sorrow, the agony of our earthly existence. 

Two themes were always attractive to this clear-eyed 
observer: (1) the degrading effect of poverty; (2) the 
importance of culture. By culture Gissing did not at 
all mean mere education, mere accumulation of facts, 
about which there is so much British and American 
boasting in our day. He longed for a national Greek- 
like feeling and desire for the beautiful. Education 
and culture for their own sake and not for their money- 
making effects; that well-proportioned view of life 
which comes only from thinking about and associating 
with the noble, — these were subjects of genuine, heart- 
felt interest to him. 

Necessary as culture is, Gissing points out that it is 
incompatible with poverty; and just here is the cause 
of much of the tragedy in modern life. But, says 
Gissing, there is tragedy worse than all this — the story 
of those who have the ability for intellectual growth 
and know it, and yet never reach a favorable environ- 
ment for the fruitage. He seems almost to echo the 
words of Carlyle : * ' This, and this alone, I call a trag- 
edy; that a soul should be born into this world with a 
capacity for knowledge, and should die out of it with 
the capacity undeveloped." Gilbert Grail, the factory 
hand, with such capacity of mind and soul, is lifted for 
a moment into a view of that nobler life for which he 
yearns, and then is suddenly thrust down once more to 
his daily grind of soul-destroying toil. This is indeed 
the true pathos of modem industrial life. 

373 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Through all the work of this grim realist runs a sav- 
ing strain of idealism. The world, as Gissing sees it, 
is toilsomely but continuously creeping upward. In the 
novelist 's own words, he tells ' ' the story of those fathers 
whose lives are but a preparation for the richer lives 
of their sons." 

Absolutely sincere, Gissing painted his pictures as he 
found their originals in the world about him ; and at all 
times he distinguished fearlessly and clearly between 
the noble and the base. He chose his subjects, his view- 
points, his theories of life, and stoutly stood by them. 
A few concessions to the public desire for sentimentality 
and the "live happily ever afterward" ending might 
have brought him popularity and the cultured environ- 
ment his nature craved. His artistic nature was too 
true for such a temptation ; he felt too keenly * * the 
sense of tears in mortal things." 

MINOR NOVELISTS 

What a host of novelists must necessarily go almost un- 
noticed! Anne Bronte (1819-1849), sister of Charlotte, 
and author of Agnes Grey and the Tenant of Wildfell 
Hall; Henry Kingsley, brother of Charles, and author 
of the Australian story, Geoffrey Hamlyn; George John 
Whyte Melville, author of the hunting novels. Eater- 
felts and Black hut Comely; Thomas Love Peacock, au- 
thor of Headlong Hall, Nightmare Ahhey, and Crochet 
Castle; George MacDonald, author of Robert Falconer 
and Alex Forhes; Joseph Henry Shorthouse, author of 
John Inglesant and the poetical child story, Little 
Schoolmaster Mark; Lewis Carroll, author of the 
strange Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; Sir Walter 

374 



NINETEENTH-CENTURY FICTION 

Besant, author of All Sorts and Conditions of Men, 
and, with James Eice, of The Golden Butterfly; William 
Carleton, the author of Traits and Stories of the Irish 
Peasantry and the Irish famine tale, Black Prophet; 
Joseph Sheridan LeFann, author of two highly success- 
ful works, Uncle Silas and In a Glass Darkly; William 
Henry Giles Kingston, author of more than a hundred 
stories of the sea; William Harrison Ainsworth, author 
of Old St. Paul's and The Tower of London; G. P. R. 
James, the historical romancer whom Thackeray bur- 
lesqued so effectively; Samuel Warren, author of the 
once famous Ten Thousand a Year; Mrs. Henry Wood, 
author of Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles and the still pop- 
ular East Lynne; Mrs. Marsh, author of The Admiral's 
Daughter; Anne Manning, author of the effective Mil- 
ton story, The Maiden and Married Life of Mary Pow- 
ell; Mrs. Norton, author of the stirring Stuart of Dun- 
leath; Julia Kavanagh, author of Madeleine ; Charlotte 
Tucker (A.L.O.E. — A Lady of England), author of the 
children's books. Exiles in Babylon and House Beau- 
tiful; Mrs. Ewing, author of Remembrances of Mrs. 
Overtheway; Mrs. Charles, author of the famous Luther 
story, The Schonherg-Cotta Family; Mrs. Oliphant, au- 
thor of the Eliot-like Salem Chapel and Passages in the 
Life of Margaret Maitland — these are but a few of the 
minor story-tellers who have been but briefly mentioned 
or totally neglected in our study. 

It is plain that during the nineteenth century fiction 
voiced practically every emotion, idea, theory, or hobby 
that man might well have. It gained not only a re- 
spectability, but an influence undreamed of by Richard- 
son and Fielding. In logical arrangement, accuracy, 

375 



ENGLISH FICTION 

truthfulness to life, genuine earnestness, and artistic 
expression, it advanced more rapidly than the English 
stage of the century, and, in all but the artistic expres- 
sion, as rapidly as British poetry of the period. The 
century began with a rivalry between the romanticism 
of Scott and the realism of Jane Austen, and it closed 
with a similar rivalry between the two methods. A 
friendly rivalry it was, however; for romance learned 
to keep more strictly within the boundaries of reason 
while realism learned to mingle the dreamy and even 
the mysterious with its attempts at rigidly accurate 
pictures. No one can doubt the ethical efficiency of the 
nineteenth-century novel. It laughed at hypocrisy, 
false pride, and vanity; it revealed and corrected the 
evils of its day ; it made an earnest effort to throw some 
light on the philosophy of life. It questioned and it 
answered; it praised and it rebuked; it guided and it 
inspired. It apparently made an honest effort to de- 
stroy the half-gods that the true god might appear. 



376 



CHAPTER VIII 

Twentieth- Century Fiction 

In these first years of the twentieth century the novel 
and the short story have outstripped in popularity and 
importance all other forms of English literary work. 
While among some European nations the drama has 
made tremendous strides, and has become the rival of 
fiction in expressing philosophies, public sentiment, and 
critiques on life, it has not been so in Great Britain. 
The prose narrative now occupies the best creative gen- 
ius of the Islands. Critics who are lovers of poetry 
look with pessimism upon this condition ; but as we 
examine the earnest painstaking work of some of our 
living novelists, and observe how closely and how se- 
riously they are endeavoring to reach into the very 
heart of modern life, we should not be disturbed lest 
the high standards of past literature be lowered. 

In these latter days the desire for accuracy may in- 
deed be in some danger of running to extremes. There 
seems to be a craze for exactness of detail. Your novel- 
ist, before writing a chapter, apparently hies himself 
to some particular section of the globe, photographs the 
people, their homes, their possessions, even to the ox 
in the barn, fills voluminous note-books, and, laden with 
minutiae returns home to write. There is some danger 
of producing a geography instead of a novel. The 

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ENGLISH FICTION 

writer might have saved much of his time and money 
by staying at home and observing the general traits of 
humanity, the eternal truths, and the main motives and 
effects that can be found anywhere, and that, after all, 
make fiction worth while. But the tendency shows at 
least a commendable effort on the part of modern writers 
to take themselves and their art seriously. 

IMPRESSIONISM 

There is evident also in these days a desire to avoid 
covering in one book the heavens above, the earth be- 
neath, and? the waters under the earth. Picturing 
accurately a cross-section of life — this is the sum and 
substance of numerous contemporary novelists. Im- 
pressionism — ^the name sometimes applied to the method 
— is a sort of snap shot of existence, a bringing out of 
not all the phases of man's activities, but only those 
that make for the greatest intensity of impression at 
a given moment. This may mean a glorification of the 
commonplace, and, to its enemies, such writers seem to 
get most valiantly nowhere. The impressionistic 
method may be looked upon as the opposite of the 
George Eliot type of novel; for she began with the 
inner cause and worked outwardly to its effect upon 
the character and his deeds, while the true impressionist 
seizes upon the individual's appearance and manners, 
and works inwardly to the quality of his or her soul. 
Whether the true state of the character's soul is ever 
pictured by such a method, or whether the picture given 
is simply the author's conjecture based upon certain 
external facts, is an open question ; but the fact remains 
that we all are compelled to gain our estimate of any 

378 



1 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

human being by just such a method. In this type of 
fiction the idea of physical reward for goodness and 
punishment for sin does not necessarily enter. Mar- 
riage, as a reward, for instance, is decidedly absent. 
Thus, in James's The Tragic Muse, a painter wishes to 
marry a female politician and a diplomat wishes to 
marry an actress ; but the author has the actress marry 
a very poor actor, and considers this far better morality 
than allowing her to marry a diplomat, with whose ideas 
and ambitions she has nothing in common. Finally, the 
impressionistic novel is generally short. It is an epi- 
sode cut by the author's scissors from the book of life. 

FRENCH ESTPLUENCES 

The influence of French theories is exceedingly ev- 
ident in the fiction of the more painstaking writers 
of contemporary fiction. Fielding, Scott, Thackeray, 
Dickens, and George Eliot simply could not keep them- 
selves out of their stories; when they were inspired 
with a preachment, the plot had to wait until the ser- 
mon had been expressed. To-day, our better artists are 
endeavoring, with some success, to separate themselves 
from their plot, to allow the story to unroll itself with- 
out interruptions, to let the tale, by its very impressive- 
ness, do its own preaching. Flaubert once said, "I do 
not believe that the artist should express his opinion 
on anything in the world. He may communicate it, 
but I would not have him speak it. . . . Hence I 
limit myself to a rendering of things as they appear to 
me, to an expression of what seems to me true, let the 
consequences be what they will." It has been a hard 

379 



ENGLISH FICTION 

lesson for the Anglo-Saxon to learn ; but there are indi- 
cations in some of our contemporary fiction that the 
idea is slowly gaining credence. 

From the French, also, we have gained another ten- 
dency — a doubtful gain, according to many critics. 
Our modem novelist is claiming the right to discuss 
anything or any phase of a thing. The result is that 
some of our "problem novels" are probing into affairs 
that, in the opinion of the old fashioned, might better 
be left to a meeting of a State Association of Physicians 
and Surgeons, or indeed to the lecturer at the dissecting 
table. But the ethical or religious uplift in some mod- 
ern masterpieces of fiction has so far counterbalanced 
this tendency. Barrie's Auld Licht Idylls, Watson's 
Beside the Bonnie Briar-Bush, and Benson's Beside Still 
Waters have a sweetness, a sanity, a healthfulness about 
them that contradict any idea that morbid curiosity as 
to sexual relationships is the most popular trait in con- 
temporary fiction. 

MC CARTHY. LANG 

The number of living novelists is of course too great 
to admit of more than a glance at their names and main 
productions. Their work is indeed too recent to allow 
of a just estimate of its worth; in future years readers 
might wonder why their names were mentioned at all. 
Of the permanence of some of these contemporaries 
there can, however, be no reasonable doubt. Justin Mc- 
Carthy (1830 — ), dramatist, novelist, historian, and 
poet, long since established his fame with such stories as 
Marjorie, The Dryad, The Flower of France, and The 
Illustrious O'Hagan, and that in his old age he has lost 

380 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

none of the dramatic quality so characteristic of his 
fiction is evidenced in his recent delineation of the typi- 
cal Irish swash-buckler in The O'Flynn. Andrew Lang 
(1844 — ), another poet, historian, essayist, and fiction- 
writer, still composes with zest, and in his old age seems 
destined to exhaust the rainbow with such works as the 
Green Fairy Book, the Blue Fairy Book, the Yellow 
Fairy Book, etc. 

WATSON. BARRIB 

John Watson (Ian Maclaren) (1850-1909), who left 
his task at a moment when an admiring public was ex- 
pecting masterly work of him, showed in such volumes 
as Beside the Bonnie Briar-Bush, The Days of Auld 
Lang Syne, and Kate Carnegie, a purity of sentiment, 
a religious emotion, the almost stubborn character of 
the Scot, softened by love of the spiritual, the homely 
humor and unassumed pathos of his native land, in 
such a winsome manner that he drew the world toward 
him. His fellow countrymen, James Matthew Barrie 
(I860—) and Samuel Rutherford Crockett (I860—), 
have pictured with equal charm the plain, strong, 
fervent folk of the Border-land and Highlands. Bar- 
rie 's Aidd Licht Idylls showed what genius could do 
with a seemingly commonplace and uninteresting field, 
and gained for the author a popularity that has been 
vastly increased by his other Scotch stories, such as 
When A Man's Single, A Window in Thrums, The Lit- 
tle Minister, and Sentimental Tommy. *'His all-power- 
ful tool is the sense of humor. It enables him to in- 
terpret life sanely and wisely, and at the same time 
joyously ; it teaches him to construct plots delightful in 

381 



ENGLISH FICTION 

their unexpectedness, and helps him to write witty 
lines. ' ' ^ But back of this humor is a sympathy born 
of a cheerful trust in mankind. Constantly he is re- 
minding us that in the midst of this rushing, careless, 
seemingly cruel world are a multitude of little, every- 
day, thoughtful acts of kindness and love. He seems 
to have a woman's intuition for understanding, the 
woman's "unutterable reason," the feminine "be- 
cause." His is not a strenuous, intensive art or expres- 
sion ; it does not strike one like a pile-driver, but gently 
pervades our consciousness with a sense of undeniable 
truth. "Whatever [he] writes is literature, because he 
dwells islanded amidst the world in a wise minority of 
one. . . . He has achieved individuality and 
thereby passed out of hearing of the ticking of clocks 
into an ever-everland where dates are not, and conse- 
quently epitaphs can never be. " ^ 

CROCKETT 

Crockett in his tales. The SticMt Minister, The Raid- 
ers, The Men of the Moss Hags, Cleg Kelly, The Black 
Douglas, and Me and Myn, is more dramatic than his 
fellow Scotchmen, and uses events as stirringly, or as 
theatrically, as Scott. His recent work, The Men of the 
Mountain (1909), dealing with the Franco-Prussian 
"War, is, however, placed upon a more real basis of life, 
and the vividness is not injured by any suggestion of 
exaggeration. These three writers, with their sympa- 
thetic descriptions of the environment, habits, and modes 
of thought of their country, and with their keen ap- 
preciation of the brave spirit that has upheld their 

1 Outlook, Vol. 91, p. 54. 2 Forum, Vol. 41, p. 137. 

382 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

homeland through many a trial, have made Scotland 
known and beloved throughout the world as never be- 
fore. 

MRS. WARD 

A novelist just now attracting international atten- 
tion is Mrs. Humphry Ward (1851 — ), author of Eol)- 
ert Elsmere, Marcella, Helbeck of Bannisdale, Lady 
Rose 's Daughter, Fenwick 's Career, Marriage a la Mode, 
Lady Merton, Colonist, and numerous other books. It 
is certain that no other woman except George Eliot and 
possibly the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and very few 
men of the nineteenth century, have had a wider read- 
ing. 

Clinging rather to the old-fashioned type than to the 
later psychological, she nevertheless reflects the new 
tendencies in thought that have entered since George 
Eliot ceased to write. She believes thoroughly in 
"higher criticism" in religion and everything else, and 
she does not hesitate to promulgate her ideas about a 
world that is "out of joint." She is emotional, and, as 
Chesterton says of Hardy, she is shrill at times. In 
such works as Marcella, where she unhesitatin'^fly looks 
into the sources and ultimate results of our social the- 
ories; in Helbeck of Bannisdale, which deals with a de- 
vout Catholic's struggle with modern skepticism; in 
Lady Rose's Daughter, where some questions of per- 
sonal ethics are boldly discussed; in these and others 
of her books she may at times exaggerate ; but she is so 
intensely, so extremely in earnest, that many readers 
have no inclination to ridicule her. 

Mrs. Ward is distinctly Anglo-Saxon in tempera- 
383 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ment. Energetic, purposeful, always willing to fight 
for a cause, with an abiding faith in the doctrine of race- 
conscience, she might be a power for good could she 
look upon life more steadily and calmly, and as a whole. 
But her heroine, to use the heroine's own words, gener- 
ally wants "more life, more life, even if it lead to agony 
and tears," and the result of all this comes dangerously 
near hysteria. These heroines almost invariably absorb 
our attention ; so, however, does the tigress in the circus 
cage. Self-willed, dissatisfied, rushing on to success or 
destruction, they are always better delineated than the 
male characters, who are generally mere men and some- 
times hardly that. This portrayal of feminine natures, 
a certain distinction of style, and the positiveness with 
which the view-point is presented have gained Mrs. 
Ward a wide and an enthusiastic following among the 
less critical; but to the more discriminating the strain 
of melodrama and the over fervid, not to say violent, 
nature of much of her work are a distinct barrier. 

That she makes mistakes of course goes without say- 
ing. A visit to America resulted in her Marriage a la 
Mode, a book eagerly awaited by Americans, but which 
turned out to be a melodramatic tract on the divorce 
problem, with an Irish-Spanish heroine. Another re- 
sult of the visit was Lady Merton, Colonist, in which, 
with certainly a lack of the admired modern inevitable- 
ness, an aristocratic lady and a drunkard's self-made 
son are brought together and of course married. De- 
spite these lapses in art, Mrs. Ward rarely fails to re- 
veal a certain distinction of style and a delineation of 
characters not surpassed by many of her contemporaries 
during the more than thirty years of her literary life. 

384 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 



HALL CAINE 

The critical world is undeniably divided as to the mer- 
its of Hall Caine (1853 — ). Admirers point out the 
immense virility and dramatic power of his stories; 
enemies make cynical remarks about a similar virility 
and coloring in circus posters. Beginning with The 
Shadow of a Crime in 1895, and following this with 
such successful tales as A Son of Hagar, The Deemster, 
The Bondsman, The Christian, The Eternal City, and 
The Prodigal Son, he has presented a picture of life as 
vigorous as any ever portrayed by Scott, and certainly 
stronger in character delineation. 

There is a note of gloomy tragedy in much that he 
has written — a weirdness indeed that at times reminds 
one of the eighteenth-century Gothic romance. He has 
the ability to lead up to intense climaxes, and this, with 
the great amount of physical animation, violent clashes 
of will, and high emotional pitch, makes his novels ad- 
mirably adapted to staging. Far more than in Scott 
the ethical purpose is present; despite the gloomy 
touches of the Northland, so frequently felt in his 
stories. Hall Caine leaves the reader with a bolder be- 
lief in the might of the right. He may not possess the 
inevitableness and the accurate psychology that the real- 
ists desire ; but the appeal he makes to the emotions, the 
virility of his characters, and the dark splendor he 
casts about them are not easily forgotten. 

MINOR NOVELISTS 

It might be interesting, had we the space of Field- 
ing's Tom Jones or Sterne's Tristram Shandy, to give 
25 385 



ENGLISH FICTION 

special attention to all these writers of the light or 
serious phases of life. We may but mention the com- 
fortably old-fashioned, romantic stir of A Gentleman of 
France, Under the Red Rose, and In King's Byways 
of Stanley "Weyman (1855 — ) ; the Orientally fantastic, 
weird, and literally hair-raising romance found in King 
Solomon's Mines, She, The People of the Mist, and The 
Morning Star by Rider Haggard (1856 — ) ; the good-na- 
tured leisureliness — or laziness — of Idle Thoughts of an 
Idle Fellow, Three Men in a Boat, and The Diary of a 
Pilgrimage, or the humorous domestic descriptions of 
the recent They and I by Jerome K. Jerome (1859 — ) ; 
the exciting swash-buckler methods of Max Pemberton 
(1863 — ) in such novels of the good old Scott and Cooper 
type as The Sea Wolves, Pro Patria, The House under 
the Sea, and The Diamond Ship; the extravagant rant- 
ing of Marie Corelli in her Sorroivs of Satan, The Murder 
of Delicia, and God's Good Man; the breezy, Scott-like 
romance of The Prisoner of Zenda, The God in the Car, 
and Rupert of Hentzau, by Anthony Hope Hawkins 
(1863 — ) ; and the mingling of humor, cynicism, pathos, 
realism, and romance in Children of the Ghetto, They 
that Walk in Darkness and Merely Mary Ann by Israel 
Zangwill (1864—). 

MAURICE HEWLETT 

Maurice Hewlett (1861 — ) is a novelist commanding 
wide attention in these first years of the twentieth cen- 
tury. As far back as 1895 he produced a little book 
of charming prose entitled Earthwork Out of Tuscany. 
Three years later came The Forest Lovers, a story which 
rang true, and which the people received gladly. When 

386 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

Richard Yea and Nay was issued, Mr. Hewlett stood a 
recognized master of historical romance. His pen has 
worked rapidly since 1895, and such volumes as Little 
Novels of Italy, The Queen's Quair, New Canterbury 
Tales, The Road in Tuscany, The Fool Errant, The 
Stooping Lady, Halfivay House, Open Country, Rest 
Harrow, and The Song of Renny have convinced many 
readers that his is an abiding genius in fiction. 

Not all readers, however, have found such a genius in 
him. Milton Bronner in his book on Hewlett declares 
Richard Yea and Nay ''magnificent but none the less a 
failure," and The Forest Lovers ''directly responsible 
for a school of cardboard mediasval fiction." Others 
have severely criticized him for the ethics of sex relation- 
ship exploited in his three later stories, Open Country, 
Halfway House and Rest Harrow. Nevertheless, as 
Bronner says, "In the main Mr. Hewlett's women are 
good women. They are loyal and loving, ready alike to 
take beatings and kissings." 

ARNOLD BENNETT 

Arnold Bennett (1865 — ) has said, "The greatest 
makers of literature are those whose vision is widest and 
whose feeling has been most intense ; their lives are one 
long ecstasy of denying that the world is a dull place." 
The latter part of this statement might well be applied 
to Bennett. His experience as a journalist imbued him, 
just as in the case of Dickens, with a curiosity to know 
and understand mankind, and the result, as shown in 
such stories as Helen with the High Hand, Buried Alive, 
Anna of the Five Towns, Old Wives' Tale, Clayhanger 
and Hilda Lessways is the conviction that life is decid- 

387 



ENGLISH FICTION 

edly somber sometimes, decidedly humorous at other 
times, and decidedly interesting all the time. When 
occasion demands, as in Old Wives' Tale and Clay- 
hanger, he uses a relentless realism that is almost oppres- 
sive. In the little field chosen by Bennett — ^the ''Five 
Towns" — there may be narrowness, lack of the cultural 
and artistic, a surplus of the monotonous; but there is 
undeniably the charm of individuality. And though 
these people may happen to live in such an environment, 
their traits are none the less universal. 

"Arnold Bennett . . . has made the discovery, 
which Balzac made before him, that there is no cleavage 
between life and romance, but that, properly speaking, 
life is romance. . . . He has contrived to combine 
French vivacity and force of feeling with British moral- 
ity and self -poise. . . . He has the time-spirit in the 

best of his work, which will withstand the rust of 
time. "2a 

These writers have interested and entertained a read- 
ing public of immense numbers ; but only a few of them 
have reached far down into the depths of life in such an 
impressive manner as to insure lasting fame. Perhaps 
of them all Zangwill, Hewlett, and Bennett have come 
nearest to that masterly view of important phases of life 
such as we expect of true genius. 

CONAN DOYLE 

In inventive power and ingenuity few men of the 
nineteenth or twentieth century have excelled Sir Ar- 
thur Conan Doyle, author of the famous Sherlock 
Holmes stories. It is reported that Doyle is sometimes 

2a Coningsby Dawson in Book News Monthly, 1911, pp. 567-9. 

388 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

chagrined that he should be more noted for these de- 
tective tales than for his more deep and serious produc- 
tions, such as A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of the Four, 
The White Company, and The Great Shadow; but it 
is nevertheless probable that his most lasting fame will 
be based on those tales of intrigue and shrewd scheming, 
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of 
Sherlock Holmes, and The Return of Sherlock Holmes. 
In spite of the doctor-novelist's efforts to kill off the 
astute detective, the people will not let the hero die, but 
call again and again for his return. 

Doyle, like Dumas, owes much to Poe in this business of 
making and solving riddles. There may not be any great 
amount of the philosophy of life in such efforts; the 
author may not have opportunities to show a varied 
delineation of characters; but that supreme skill and 
great technical art may be displayed in such work has 
been proved by both Poe and Doyle. And it should 
be remembered that this continued study of one hero 
may result in a character of permanent literary value. 
Sherlock Holmes is to-day as living a personality to 
hundreds of thousands of readers as Pickwick or Becky 
Sharp. Moreover, this vivid relating of but one epi- 
sode at a time in the character's life makes the narrative 
a perfect specimen of the short story, a type that dif- 
ferentiates itself rather strictly from the novel, not by 
its shortness, but by the fact that it reviews only one 
of the critical moments in a life. Conan Doyle in his 
conciseness, his vividness, his logical, closely woven plots, 
his use of the mysterious, his ingenious solutions, and his 
knowledge of what to leave out, will probably long be 
considered a master of the short-story form. 

389 



ENGLISH FICTION 

WRITERS OF VERY RECENT FAME 

With the exception of Kipling, the writers now to 
be discussed are of very recent fame. Because, there- 
fore, of the lack of that proper perspective gained only 
by the intervention of years, it is deemed best to add 
to my own views some criticisms from various literary 
periodicals. The reader might find it of interest to 
gather views of this sort about nearly all the novelists 
mentioned in this chapter, and thus discover for him- 
self what the true consensiTS of public opinion is con- 
cerning these "new lights." It should constantly be 
borne in mind that the following criticisms are personal 
opinions, and may not by any means agree with the 
views of all other students of English fiction. 

HERBERT GEORGE WELLS 

Herbert George Wells (1866 — ) in his early work 
surprised the English-speaking world with his puzzling 
ingenuity and is surprising it no less to-day by his 
puzzling investigations of our present social structure. 
How matter-of-fact the eighteenth-century romances be- 
come when compared with The Stolen Bacillus and 
Other Stories, The War of the Worlds, When the Sleeper 
Wakes, In the Days of the Comet and The War in 
the Air! Wells is a graduate of a technical school, 
and his scientific knowledge enables him to give a tone 
of reality to his wildest marvels that almost causes the 
reader to believe in their future possibility. There is a 
daring about some of this man's conceptions that well- 
nigh staggers us ; we are taken out beyond the confines 
of dimensions and time. 

Wells now classifies his stories as romances and novels. 
390 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

The romances are, of course, the strange narratives men- 
tioned above. In his novels he comes down to ordinary- 
life — very ordinary life indeed. "Wells has a hearty con- 
tempt for the bourgeoisie, and, as he is a socialist, he 
does not hesitate to show what a wretch a man may 
become under the pressure of modern social circum- 
stances. He maintains that the failure of the present 
social system is largely due to the ascendency of those 
who inherit wealth, and added to this, in his. opinion, is 
the fact that progress is clogged by a "multitude of 
impotent folk," who have no ideal, who do not know 
what they want, and who merely exist restlessly. In 
Tono-Bungay Wells strikes bitterly at the English tra- 
dition of the wealth-inheriting class, the tradition that 
a certain family must be kept in luxurious leisure at the 
expense of the common folk because such has always 
been the case. 

To Wells there appears an even more serious menace. 
The new wealth, acquired by dubious means, is rapidly 
buying up the inherited feudalistic powder, and in these 
raw, often vulgar, new masters the novelist finds "no 
promise of fresh vitality for the kingdom." He is not 
chary of hard blows when discussing these products of 
modern economic conditions ; in spite of their humor, 
such stories as Love and Mr. Leivisham, Kipps, and 
Mr. Polly are almost depressing in their delineation of 
contemptible vulgarity and meanness. And Wells him- 
self seems almost depressed when he notes London's 
"immense effect of Purposelessness, " how its millions 
demand and obtain so little of life, how they grope 
without an ideal. In his earlier work this writer has 
furnished reading for the romantic reader; he now of- 

391 



ENGLISH FICTION 

fers more solid food for the thinker; which the distant 
future will prefer, is an open question. 

It is generally difficult for an author to get away 
from his earlier work. Since several of Wells's first 
stories dealt with the grotesque and bizarre, many read- 
ers still persist in looking upon him as a kind of Eng- 
lish Jules Verne. But even such stories as The Time 
Machine, When the Sleeper Wakes, The Invisible Man, 
and The War of the Worlds, besides being decidedly 
unlike the Verne productions in that they have a basis 
of scientific truth, also use science as a means of proph- 
ecy and warning to an extent unknown to the French- 
man. These fantastic tales, however, do not seem to 
represent the real trend of Wells's genius. We have 
indicated that Love and Mr. Lewisham is a genuinely 
human document; Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul 
a masterly portrayal of certain phases of British so- 
ciety; and Tono-Bungay, an almost irritatingly realistic 
picture of the irrational structure of modern social life. 
Wells's New Machiavelli is a still more bitter story of 
life as it is, a treatise rather than a piece of fiction, 
a narrative that leaves the reader a disturbed ques- 
tioner. Taking up phase after phase of our present 
restlessness, Wells has become what we might term a 
"social biologist." He is himself a questioner; he con- 
tradicts himself; he sees so much wrong that he cannot 
write beautifully for writing honestly. Some day, 
doubtless, out of all these energetic, vehement, bitter 
descriptions, views, and reflections he will weld a homo- 
geneous work that shall stand as a masterpiece, not only 
of fiction, but of social portrayal. For he is an idealist 
talking in realistic terms. 

392 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

"He is a diagnostician of the symptoms of the grow- 
ing pains of our uneasy times — an interpreter of the 
shifts to which men and women find themselves reduced 
by the struggles of the present in the swaddling clothes 
of the past. . . . There is no one now writing 
English fiction who deals with such stark and clean 
frankness with those essentials which the Victorian Era 
agreed to eliminate by the simple process of never men- 
tioning them above a whisper. There is on the whole 
no one in the field who sheds more light where so much 
light is needed. ' ' ^ 

" [His Imagination] has been fired by the topsyturvy 
spectacle of man's powers over nature being indefinitely 
increased by science, while his powers over himself have 
been diminished by the irruption of incalculable new 
forces. What needs putting under the laws of science, 
in short, is modern man himself, and Mr. Wells is the 
only English novelist who, with large and democratic 
sympathies, has perceived that a civilization that is 
guided by the jerry-built ideals of an ignorant de- 
mocracy and of plutocratic cunning is running counter 
to the laws of social health. ' ' * 

" He is not always the purest of artists, and his analy- 
sis is not always free from bias, but his criticisms of 
the topsyturvydom of pragmatism and folly are funda- 
mentally and everlastingly true. ' ' ^ 

"The bigger the problem the more eagerly he attacks 

3 Quoted from the New York Times in Current Literature, Vol. 
50, p. 451. 

4 Edward Gamett as quoted by G. W. Harris, Review of Re- 
views, Vol. 40, p. 508. 

5 Harris, Ibid. * 

393 



ENGLISH FICTION 

it. . . . He is ... in deadly earnest, and out 
of his innumerable blows upon the present state of edu- 
cation, of political life, of social life, many are bound 
to hit their mark and to leave our ears ringing."® 

A. C. BENSON 

Two brothers who are writing with an art that is 
decidedly promising are Arthur Christopher Benson 
(1862—) and Edward Frederic Benson (1867—). 
Arthur Benson is beyond contradiction one of the 
most potent forces in contemporary English literature. 
Those who have read The Upton Letters, From a Col- 
lege Window, and Beside Still Waters know what a 
depth of repose, what a love for nature, what a regard 
for the old, the traditional, the things that have been 
tried and found true, rest in this man. He comes to 
us with the calming voice so acutely needed in this day 
of mad hastening and loud-mouthed turmoil. Calling 
a halt to our feverish rushing hither and thither, he 
shows the emptiness of our soul-killing struggle for 
position, wealth, and fame. Many readers have dis- 
covered in his works a certain weariness of the world 
of activities; but while this and a tinge of sadness may 
be present, he never speaks as a pessimist. 

The sanity of the man is refreshing. Long a master 
at Eton, he talks or rather meditates with an air of 
authority, with a quality bom of an aristocracy of 
culture. And yet while his personality shines through 
every page, Benson never thrusts his opinions upon one ; 
always his frankness and his "sweet reasonableness" 
overpower us and induce us to become his disciples long 
6 Current Literature, Vol. 50, p. 452. 

394 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

before the book is closed. His is a strong intellect, 
mellowed by understanding and intense sympathy. 
Meditations on moods — these are his themes; indeed 
these make his books more nearly essays than novels, 
and yet they are stories of a soul. They are the in- 
trospective reviews of a high-minded man's spiritual 
progress — a man with a deep-seated interest in the 
esthetic and the ethical, and one who would have all 
other men interested also. It would seem to be a hope- 
less task to lure the ** average reader" to these higher 
realms of thought; but Arthur Benson does it with a 
style as persuasive as any written by the great masters 
of nineteenth-century prose. Whether the world in- 
crease its mad gait, or whether it become calmer, his 
books are of a sorely needed type, — in the one case to 
warn, in the other to delight. 

"Mr. [Arthur] Benson is of a sensitive, reflecting, 
confiding temperament which shrinks from whatever is 
brusque and rough and uncompromising. He is not 
really effeminate, but boyish, eager, ingenuous. There 
is an air of wistfulness about his confidences which is 
very winning. , . . He has the balancing instinct, 
his imagination is sufficiently flexible to bring the for and 
the against into sometimes embarrassing juxtaposition. 
. . . The fault that must be found in Mr. Benson's 
work as a whole is precisely that it is inconclusive, very 
amiable, very engaging, very helpful to people who stand 
in need of a mild sedative; but not really stimulating, 
not really . . . convincing. ... If Mr. Benson 
has no robust philosophy of life, if he is not quite fitted 
to be the spiritual father of a flock, he has, more than any 
of his contemporaries, the faculty of intimate discourse, 

395 



ENGLISH FICTION 

of winning sympathy through frank and human con- 
fession. ' ' '^ 

"He is not a preacher; he is essentially an artist. 
He lets the truth enforce itself. His endeavor is to set 
it forth with perfect sincerity and with vivid charm. 
He is reverent of the traditions of the past, but not in 
any sense a slave to their authority. . . . (He) 
sees life sanely and with warm human sympathies, and 
envelops his readers in an atmosphere of rest and 
thoughtfulness, in a style at once fluent, accurate, and 
beautiful without over-emphasis or exaggeration. ' ' ^ 

"He is without the slightest stretch of the imagina- 
tion one of the potent forces to-day in English litera- 
ture. . . . Mr. Benson expresses a great thought in 
great language with consummate ease. . . . Mr. 
Benson tries to sanctify suffering. . . . He is con- 
vinced of the necessity of closer acquaintance with it. 
. . , [His work] is the essence of a mellowed in- 
tellect; the keener for the classic association; the ten- 
derer for the human feeling. . . . Somehow, by an 
almost supernatural instinct he sees into the soul of the 
struggling man and woman and discovers its bareness. 
And having seen its destitution, he covers it tenderly 
with the unction from his well of sympathy. ' ' ^ 

E. F. BENSON 

E. F. Benson has much the same fine poetic nature, 
coloring, and quiet charm as his brother ; but his humor 
and gaiety are more evident. Mammon and Co., The 

7 H. W. Boynton, Bookmcm, Vol. 26, pp. 305-307. 

8 Outlook, Vol. 85, p. 399. 

9 Matthew Cripps, Book News Monthly, Vol. 27, p. 659. 

396 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

Princess Sophia, The Image in the Sand, The Angel 
of Pain, and A Reaping are books that have brought 
not only entertainment, but soul-satisfaction to many 
a reader. Notice for a moment this last-mentioned 
book, A Reaping. How the strife and the bitterness 
of the world are forgotten in these pages! An un- 
selfish man is married to an unselfish woman; each is 
a perfect complement to the other. The daily moods, 
the quiet happiness, the fullness of their domestic peace 
are depicted with a beauty that teaches us, not what 
we are, alas, but what we might be. With such a 
theme goes a love of nature that brings new life to 
the pent-up soul. Sadness is not absent; death enters 
this domestic heaven; but the shadows go in and out 
through the sunlight so silently, so softly, that we come 
forth from a reading of the book filled and strengthened 
with a new satisfaction and a firm belief that all might 
be well if we would but have it so. Can the helpful- 
ness of such work in this day of shrillness be denied? 

If space permitted, much might be said of the merits 
of such new writers as John Collis Snaith, author of 
Broke of Covenden, Patricia at the Inn "^nd The Way- 
farer; we might tarry to speak of the strength and 
symbolism of John Trevena's Dartmoor stories. Heather 
and Furze the Cruel; or we might try to explain the 
intricate wheel-within-a-wheel method of William De 
Morgan, whose Joseph Vance, Alice for Short, Somehow 
Good, and It Never Can Happen Again are such a skilful 
mingling of the ludicrous and the pathetic, and whose 
people seem not created but simply transferred from 
life to the printed book. 

Three novelists whose books have already a wide read- 
397 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ing on both sides of the Atlantic, and whose artis- 
tic powers are still developing are Eden Phillpotts 
(1862—), William John Locke (1863—), and Sir Ar- 
thur T. Quiller-Couch (1863—). 

EDEN PHILLPOTTS 

Eden Phillpotts 's first notable success came with his 
Children of the Mist. Here he had found his atmos- 
phere. In the Dartmoor district of Devonshire with 
its ancient ruins, its almost prehistoric stone bridges, 
and its sudden elevations or "tors," as the plain people 
there call them, he found a landscape and a folk that 
he could love. Whenever he has departed from these — 
as in his seaport story, The Haven — he has done work 
of an inferior quality. That Phillpotts is in close sym- 
pathy with the Devonshire scenes and people is always 
evident. John Trevena, living in the same region, and 
describing the same peasantry, has written in his earlier 
work as an alien, as one not quite, but wanting to be, 
in full sympathy with them ; Phillpotts identifies himself 
with his neighbors. The very title of his first highly 
successful book. Children of the Mist, is symbolic of 
the immature characters with whom he walks and talks 
daily. 

In this book, in The River, The Mother of the Man, 
My Devon Year, The Folk Afield, and in all the others 
dealing with the moors about his home, he seems intensely 
impressed with the effect of environment upon a soul's 
growth. It is through their surroundings that he an- 
alyzes with such subtle psychology the moods and the 
intellect of his people. It is this that gives the touches 
of solemnity, the mystery, the weirdness, the tender- 

398 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

ness, and the tragedy to his tales. Phillpotts is hon- 
estly and always realistic ; but the pessimism or cynicism 
that so often accompanies realism is foreign to his na- 
ture. As he looks out upon the simple folk wandering 
over the moorland, he cannot believe that they are es- 
sentially debased, inherently wicked; they are but unde- 
veloped, but "children of the mist." 

"He is a minor Thomas Hardy, but much more. He 
has a like joy in the face and heart of the earth, and 
he gets very close to the secret that remains hers, how- 
ever we try to surprise it. . . . Mr. Phillpotts gives 
us noble landscapes, honest, faithful, impressive, which 
he clearly does from loving to do them, and which are 
as far as could be from what a simpler age than this 
used to prize as 'word-painting.' , . . But they do 
not take the eye or hold the memory like those counter- 
feit presentments of people in which he excels. . . . 
He makes them so true that you have only to go to your 
own knowledge of yourself and of others for the proof 
of them. . . . Nobody is quite like him in his skill 
of realizing them. . . . He penetrates recesses of 
the heart not hitherto explored and deals with fresh 
surface facts of life in a way he seems to have found 
out for himself. The mystery of art as of life is in 
the static things ; to them we go back and rest and re- 
fresh ourselves in them after the moving forces have 
swept us helpless to the end. It is in the abundance of 
these static things that the lasting charm of this new 
great novelist exists."^" 

"Two qualities are more noticeable in Mr. Phillpotts 's 
work. . . . There is an intimate and loving com- 
10 W. D. Howells, North American Review, 1910, pp. 15-22. 

399 



ENGLISH FICTION 

prehension of the beauties of nature, even an ardent 
glorying in them, and a keen sense of the innate dignity 
of the human soul. . . . Mr. Phillpotts is a master 
of word-painting of landscape ; among the best of those 
now writing there are few who equal him. ... A 
different village is the scene of each separate book, but 
the sort of people remains the same. . . . It is in 
the portrayal of the completed type that he excels ; even 
among his leading characters in several books there are 
but three who develop and progress in spiritual change 
or growth before our eyes. This of course is in itself 
a falling short of true greatness in the creative artist, 
but it is a sign of power in Mr. Phillpotts 's writing that 
his characters hold our interest even though they are 
so true to themselves that we know just what to expect 
of them after we have become thoroughly acquainted 
with them. ' ' ^^ 

W. J. LOCKE 

W. J. Locke has written some remarkable character 
novels in his Derelicts, The Usurpers, The Morals of 
Marcus Ordeyne, The Beloved Vagabond, and Simon 
the Jester. Unlike Trevena and Phillpotts, he is not 
particular as to his environments; London or any other 
city where an abundance of social life, political activi- 
ties, and contrasting types of men may be found, suits 
his purpose. In Simon the Jester, for instance, we 
find a strange mingling of business and social life, with 
a circus performer introducing a third form of ex- 
istence, and these, with an inspiring love theme and a 
man's battle against ill health and seemingly certain 

11 Grace Colboriij Forum, Vol. 39, pp. 543-545. 

400 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

death, make up a story full of animation and keen in- 
terest. Locke has the ability to shade off his humor 
into pathos — ^to cause laughter to melt into tears and 
distress to rise into happiness. These are, of course, 
worthy gifts ; but his power in the art of creating char- 
acters that stand forth with living personality — this 
is likely to cause him to be remembered long after 
many of his fellow novelists. For the ability to add 
an original character to the galaxy of vividly real 
figures in literature is a pretty fair indication of long 
fame. 

*'Mr. Locke's best work Is in his men. In five books 
he has created a blood brotherhood of five — various in 
outward circumstances and the accidents of fortune, 
but one in spirit. They are gentle, philosophic, chival- 
rous vagabonds from the conventions of the world they 
live in. One and all they avoid the humdrum responsibili- 
ties which a stereotyped society imposes on present-day 
sons of men; and one and all, when crises come they 
rise to the heights. They are of the tribe of Quixote, 
great souls presenting to the eyes of a weary world 
the guise of suitable lunatics. . . . The comment 
. . . has been made that Locke's stories are impos- 
sible. It is quite true, the chilly, flavorless element of 
possibility is wanting; but something much finer takes 
its place. It is quite true that people and events like 
this do not happen; but they ought to. . . . Mr. 
Locke does not bother himself about reality, he is con- 
cerned only with the truth. . . . He is an optimist, 
not because he is blind to the evil in the world but 
because he sees so much that is good and sees it so de- 
sirable. He has the fine gift of making virtue attract- 
26 401 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ive, which is so much more worth while than making 
vice hideous. ' ' ^- 

"A rebellious vein of romanticism, a love of the Quix- 
otic, a tender chivalry, an indulgent irony; these are 
some of the qualities possessed by his most characteristic 
volumes. . . . What ultimately happens to his char- 
acters is of minor consideration ; what they think and 
say and do from day to day makes up the vital interest. 
. . . His heroes are often purposely, extravagantly, 
incredibly Quixotic. . . . And the fact that the 
reader accepts their most preposterous actions with 
equanimity and even with approval is Mr. Locke's suf- 
ficient justification. . . . It is with a mist before 
the eyes and laughter in the soul that one reads many 
of the best pages of Mr. William John Locke. ' ' " 

"He has peopled the realms of his fancy with living, 
breathing, sentient creatures. . . . Their doings, 
their sayings, their very thoughts have an almost start- 
ling verisimilitude, despite the fact that the protagonists 
of his dramas are invariably among the oddest, most 
quaintly freakish and fantastical strangers to conven- 
tionality of all the heroes of English fiction. . . . 
Indeed, he gives freer rein to his own idiosyncrasies 
than any other living story-teller with whose work I 
happen to be acquainted. ' ' " 

QUILLER-COUCH 

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, better known as "Q," is 
famous among American readers as a story-writer; but 

12 Outlook, Vol. 99, p. 259. 

13 Frederic Taber Cooper, Bookman, Vol. 24, pp. 602-604. 

14 G. W. Harris, Review of Reviews, Vol. 41, pp. 376-377. 

402 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

England knows him favorably as critic, essayist, and 
poet also. Of Cornish blood, he loves the Celtic weird- 
ness, mysticism, romance, fire, and wit, and probably 
his best work has been done in dealing with these traits 
as he has found them in the seamen of Cornwall. Troy 
Town, The Delectable Duchy, From a Cornish Window, 
and many another volume have made the romantic cor- 
ners and the quaint characters of these shut-in, cliff- 
surrounded harbors familiar to all the English-speaking 
world. 

But Quiller-Couch has the versatility, as well as the 
other qualities of the Cornish; he does not confine his 
themes to the seaports about his home nor to the fisher- 
men with whom he mingles daily. In two recent works, 
for instance, True Tilda and Lady Good-for-Nothing, 
he writes as a man might who had spent his life in 
London or in some New England town. Tilda, injured 
in a circus, and confined for months in a hospital, ef- 
fects the reunion of a father and his son, and in her 
resulting contact with wealth and refinement, develops 
into an intelligent and fascinating young lady. This 
is far away from Cornwall, but Lady Good-for-Nothing 
is still farther. Here a strong love theme links a New 
England girl of colonial days with a British official, 
and the unfailing interest and the vivid pictures of Puri- 
tan life in America make it one of Q's best. 

The wit of Quiller-Couch is now a matter of world- 
wide information. It is not a wit based merely upon a 
humorous jingling of words; it is founded on a broad 
observation and a wide knowledge of many sorts and 
conditions of men. "I love to smoke and listen to 
other men 's opinions, ' ' he once said ; and he has listened' 

403 



ENGLISH FICTION 

with understanding and sympathy. Add to this wit 
and this understanding of humanity a stirring plot, 
incisive characterization, an ability to picture land and 
sea with the sureness of an artist, a spiritual insight 
that in his serious moments touches the reader's soul 
with its truthfulness, and we have the reasons for be- 
lieving that the name of "Q" will be familiar to many 
future generations of English-speaking readers. 

" Quill er-Couch's writing is imbued with the poetry 
and mysticism of his race, and when he writes of the 
Cornish people and their strange characteristics he seems 
to transport us into their midst. ' ' ^^ 

"Both in matter and in manner he stands alone, and 
it would be hard to say whether one more admires the 
individuality and freshness of his natural gift as a 
raconteur or the rare mastery of technique which shapes 
and gives the perfect finish to his work. In this last 
respect one cannot but be struck by the air of verisimili- 
tude. "^"^ 

"Mr. Quiller-Couch ... is the master of an ex- 
quisite art. Karely absent from his work, we think 
it more persuasively present when his revenants are 
bodily than when they are spiritistic. . . . Every- 
day material, as this accomplished writer treats it, is 
weird enough and poetic enough without his summoning 
the supernatural to its intensifying. . . . Whichever 
story makes the closest appeal to the reader, he will 
hardly fail to find somewhere the power, poetry, and 

15 Frances Irwin, Book News Monthly, Vol. 28, p. 332. 
^Q Bookman, Vol. 14, p. 630. 

404 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

dramatic instinct without morbidness, of which a book 
by this writer always holds the promise. ' ' ^'^ 

"A. T. Quiller-Couch . . . makes stories that are 
full of vigor and invention ; romantic in temperament, 
yet realistic in their close observation and in the under- 
standing sympathy with which he studies the life of 
humble folk and the types and scenes of his native 
country. . . . His novels and short tales in spirit 
and method affiliate him with Barrie, Kipling, and Stev- 
enson, and he is little inferior to them in strength and 
originality; . . . the unpleasant realism and the 
decadent pessimism of the day he stands quite apart 
from. . . . The work of A. T. Quiller-Couch is refu- 
tation of the charge that the end of the century in 
English literature has nothing to offer but the morbid 
and unwholesome. ' ' ^^ 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 

Many discerning students of literature look upon John 
Galsworthy (1867 — ) as the most promising of all the 
young British fiction-writers who have risen to fame 
since Kipling. In such stories as Jocelyn (1898), Villa 
Bubein (1900), A Man of Devon (1901), The Island 
Pharisees (1904), The Man of Property (1906), and 
The Country House (1907), as well as in such dramas 
as The Silver Box and Strife, we may discover an ear- 
nestness, a keenness of observation, a vividness of char- 
acterization, and a style that demand admiration. 

n Nation, Vol. 72, p. 97. 

18 Warner's Library of the World's Best Literature, Vol, 20, 
pp. 11,947-8, 

405 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Galsworthy has been called "a novelist who disdains 
the plot, ' ' and to him the plot is indeed a matter of sec- 
ondary importance. But whatever may be lacking in this 
particular is more than compensated by his humor, his 
keen satire, the distinctness of his characters, and the 
assurance with which he attacks and analyzes the social 
questions agitating his nation. In Fraternity, for in- 
stance, the story resolves itself into a question as to 
what the leisure classes, who have opportunity for cul- 
ture, are going to do for the folk whose unceasing 
struggle for bread precludes such culture. Again, in 
The Island Pharisees we see English pharisaism through 
the eyes of an idle young gentleman of wealth, who be- 
comes so disgusted with it all that he well-nigh breaks 
connection with the entire social system. The Country 
House, generally considered Galsworthy's best work, 
has the same minimum of plot, but perhaps an even 
greater restless questioning as to the why and whither 
of present economic and social conditions. 

There are some masterly pictures in these stories of 
modern English discontent. Note but this extract, — 
the description of a baby in an unhappy household, as 
portrayed in Fraternity. 

' ' His little fists and nose and forehead, even his naked, 
crinkled feet were thrust with all his feeble strength 
against his mother's bosom, as though he were striving 
to creep into some hole away from life. There was a 
sort of dumb despair in that tiny pushing of his way 
back to the place whence he had come. His head, cov- 
ered with dingy down, quivered with his effort to es- 
cape. 

406 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

"He had been alive so little: that little had suf- 
ficed." 

The man who can sketch such a scene is capable of 
striking hard. John Galsworthy has not spared; in 
spite, therefore, of his distinct prose rhythm and lit- 
erary art, he is considered by some critics as inflexible, 
harsh in color, and lacking in a sense of the beauty of 
life. Perhaps his themes and the principles he espouses 
demand such results; but the fact remains that with 
commonplace people and commonplace scenes he gives 
astonishing reality — a reality that may be too true to be 
entirely comfortable. So far he has been a destroyer 
of traditions and ideals; whether he is a constructive 
leader remains to be seen. 

ROBERT HICHENS 

In the work of Robert Smythe Hichens (1864 — ) we 
find a type of romance as intensely interesting as that 
produced in the early years of the nineteenth century, 
and yet a romance containing a distinctly modern note. 
The Folly of Eustace, Tongues of Conscience, The 
Woman with the Fan, The Garden of Allah, The Call 
of the Blood, The Spirit in Prison, Bella Donna, and 
Dwellers on the Threshold satisfy our natural human 
craving for the romantic, and yet command serious 
thought. For Hichens has what many romancers lack, 
ability for keen analysis of character. Subtlety is his 
also ; but he gains what many of the subtle fail to grasp, 
the epic view of life. Then, too, in the dreamiest mo- 
ment of romance he never loses his touch of realism. 

Choosing characters filled with the restlessness of 

407 



ENGLISH FICTION 

modern life, he frequently places them among the mys- 
terious environments of a far land. By such a method 
the setting becomes a vital element in the story, and 
possesses and lends fascination. An extraordinary tal- 
ent for describing scenery rarely fails to make his at- 
mospheres impressive. In The Garden of Allah, as in 
Barhary Sheep, the characters seem to be the inevitable 
product of the desert; in The Call of the Blood we can- 
not escape the joyous, abandoned spirit of Sicily. And 
yet this atmosphere apparently is not the result of 
lengthy, concrete descriptions; rather it is the sum total 
of vague hints and touches of the mysterious. 

Complaint has been heard that some of Hiehens's 
later work is too conversational and long drawn-out. It 
has been noted just as frequently, however, that the 
concentrated intensity of the latter half of such novels 
more than compensates for the deliberateness of the 
earlier pages. Generally his style is direct; we seldom 
grope for the meaning. Two traits alone, of which he 
seems to be master — dramatic intensity and the psychic 
effect of environment — will counterbalance any defects 
discovered by his critics. 

"Certainly he is among the few who are gifted with 
a faculty developed to the point of genius. His imagina- 
tion is almost abnormally strong. He has at bottom a 
great power of dreaming, and while he is realistic, he 
excels realism in that he sees things with something of 
the exalted perception of one in a vision. Each episode 
of his stories carries with it, as in a dream, a sense of 
prophecy, of ' expectancy, vague but persistent. ' . . . 
Instead of rousing us to fresh questionings and uneasy 
reflections, Mr. Hiehens's romances bear us steadily 

408 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

onward, with a sense of drifting upon a strong, invisible 
current, which lulls the mind with an almost narcotic 
effect and holds the imagination spellbound. ' ' ^* 

RUDYARD KIPLING 

The prince of twentieth-century British story-tellers 
is one of the youngest of them. Eudyard Kipling was 
born in 1865; but for at least a quarter of a century 
he has been producing fiction and poetry so original 
and so close to humanity that readers ignorant of his 
life might easily conjecture that he is old in both years 
and wisdom. To Westerners, there is always something 
mysterious and mystical associated with the ancient land 
of India, and Kipling, evidently infused with these traits 
of the country in which he was born, has, in spite of his 
realistic descriptions of it, deepened the spell that hovers 
over it. When, in our reading we come with him to 
the gigantic ruins of a city in the jungles where monkeys 
chatter in the king's council chamber; when we see 
the giant Afghans battling with the sturdy British 
privates; when, on the road to Mandalay we hear the 
elephants tramping in the slush; when at night we look 
up into the vast heavens and hear at the same time 
the laugh from the barracks or camp and the scream 
of wild animals in the jungle, we feel that surely this 
is romance. But when, on the other hand, we swelter 
in the maddening heat of the Punjab, or listen to the 
rude and vigorous stories as told by Mulvaney; or hear 
the latest gossip running through the army post, we are 
just as apt to say, ''This is surely realism." 

19 G. H. Gaines, Harper's Weekly, vol. 51, p. 1206. 

409 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The truth is Kipling is both realistic and romantic. 
In his descriptions of scenes, army life, British soldiers, 
and "civilized" natives, he is likely to be accurate to 
the smallest detail; but one glance at the deep, for- 
bidding jungle, and all the mysticism and romance of 
his nature are aroused, and then we have stories almost 
as heroic as any by Scott, and as weird as any by Poe. 
The dark, almost hideous fascination of the serpents and 
monkeys outwitting one another in the vast inland deeps 
has never been excelled in any literature. The ancient 
wisdom of these jungle denizens as seen in The Jungle 
Book, Kim, and similar volumes has something almost 
terrifying in its unearthliness. Turn, however, to the 
love affairs of Mulvaney and Dinah, to the barrack 
scenes in Plain Talcs from the Hills, or to the animated 
pages of Captains Courageous, and we know that Rud- 
yard Kipling can view modern life with eyes undimmed 
by any glamour of romance. But the gJory of the man 
lies in this very fact that he can see within the stern, 
realities of existence all the romance one could desire. 
He compels us to see the poetry in present-day things. 

With this keen observation, strong imagination, and 
daring fancy goes a singular art tliat seems most simple 
yet is almost impossible of imitation. In delineation 
of character Kipling gives but a few vivid descriptive 
words, a few exceedingly suggestive hints, and the being 
stands distinctly before us. His adjectives, some of 
which he seems to have invented, are not always beau- 
tiful, but they make a sound that leaves no doubt as 
to their meaning. In his plot he is surprisingly simple ; 
one wonders why somebody else had not told the story 
long before. The virility, the animation, the realistie set- 

410 



TWENTIETH-CENTURY FICTION 

tings, the closeness of the author to his story, and, at 
the same time, the glamour of distant romance mingled 
with it all — these save the plot from any suggestion of 
baldness. In every form of fiction, from the story 
of two or three pages to the volume of several hundred, 
Kipling has been a success ; his knowledge of men, his 
descriptive power, his art in the making of plot, his un- 
failing vividness of characterization, and his genius for 
creating an atmosphere mark him as one of the British 
masters of fiction. 



411 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

This Bibliography is intended merely to be suggestive, and is, 
of course, by no means exhaustive. 

Fiction in GENERAii 

Arnold: Manual of English Literature; Besant: Art of Fic- 
tion; Brooke: Early English Literature, English Literature from, 
the Beginning to tJie 'Normam, Conquest; Cambridge History of 
English Literature; Canby: Short Story in English; Chambers: 
Cyclopaedia of English Literature; Chandler: Literature of 
Roguery; Courthope: History of English Poetry; Craik: Eng- 
lish Prose; Crawford: The Novel: What It Is; Cross: Develop- 
ment of the English Novel; CunliflFe : Century Readings in English 
Literature; Dawson: Great English Short Story Writers; Diction- 
ary of National Biography; Dunlop: History of Prose Fiction; 
Early English Text Society Publications; English Men of Letters 
Series; Forsyth: Novels and Novelists of the Eighteenth Century; 
Gerwing: Art of the Short Story; Gosse: Eighteenth Century 
Literature; Great Writers Series; Greene: History of the Eng- 
lish People; Griswold: Descriptive List of Novels; Hazlitt: 
English Novelists, Lectures on English Comic Writers; Hamil- 
ton: Materials and Methods of Fiction; Home: Technique of the 
Novel; Jusserand: English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare, 
History of English Literature, Wayfaring Life in the Middle 
Ages; Lanier: The English Novel; Masson: British Novelists and 
Their Styles; Matthews: TJie Short Story; Modern Language 
Association Publications; Morley: English Writers; Moulton: 
Four Tears of Novel Reading; Moulton: Library of Literary 
Criticism; Newcomer: Twelve Centuries of English Poetry and 
Prose; Perry: English Literature in the Eighteenth Century, 
Study of Prose Fiction; Phelps: Essays on Modern Novelists j 

413 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Raleigh: The English Novel; Reeve: Progress of Romance; 
Saintsbury: Elizabethan Literature, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
ture; Schofield: English Literature from the Norman Conquest 
to Chancer; Simonds: Introduction to the Study of Prose Fic- 
tion; Sismondi: Literature of the South of Europe; Smith: 
Poets and Novelists; Stephen: Hours in a Library; Taine: Eng- 
lish Literature; Ten Brink: English Literature; Thackeray: 
English Humorists; Ticknor: Spanish Literature; Tuckerman: 
English Prose Fiction; Warner: Library of the World's Best 
Literature; Warren: History of the Novel Previous to the SeV' 
enteenth Century; Wheeler: Dictionary of Noted Names of Fic- 
tion; Whipple: Essays and Reviews, Literature of the Age of 
Elizabeth; Whitcomb: Study of a Novel. 

The Anglo-Saxon Pebiod 
7. Fiction of the Period 

Brooke: Early English Literature, English Literature from the 
Beginning to the Norman Conquest; Ten Brink: English Litera- 
ture. 

Widsith (c. 450), Gollancz's Exeter Book; Guest: English 
Rhythms; Brooke: Beowulf (c. 550), Wyaitt, Harrison and Sharp, 
translations by Hall, Garnett, Morris and Wyatt, Earle, Thorpe, 
Kimble, Arnold, etc.; Fight at Finnsburg, translated in Garnett's 
Beowulf; Complain of Deor, Thorpe's Exeter Book, cf. Morley, 
Brooke, Cook and Tinker; Waldhere, Stephens' Two Leaves of 
King Waldhere' s Lay; Ruined Burg, translations by Earle and 
by Thorpe {Exeter Book), cf. Brooke, Morley, etc.; Sea-Farer, 
translations in Brooke and in Cook and Tinker; Wanderer, trans- 
lations in Brooke, Cook and Tinker, Gollancz's Exeter Book; 
Csedmon's Paraphrases (650-680), cf. Brooke and Thorpe; Bede's 
Ecclesiastical History (731), translations by Giles (Bohn) and 
Miller (E. E. T. S.), cf. Cook and Tinker, Morley; Cynewulf 
(750-825): Elene, translations by Garnett, Kimble (Vercelli 
Book), cf. Cook and Tinker, Morley, Ten Brink, Brooke, etc.; 
Juliana, in Gollancz's Exeter Book, The Christ, in Gollancz's 
Exeter Book, cf. Cook and Tinker, Morley, Brooke, etc., Andreas, 
in Kimble's Vercelli Book, cf. Cook and Tinker, Morley, Brooke, 
etc., Guthlao, in, Gollancz's Exeter Book, cf. Morley, Brooke, etc., 

414 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Fates of the Apostles, in Kimble's VercelU BooJc, Phoenix, trans- 
lated by Hall and by Cook and Tinker, cf. Ten Brink, Morley, 
Brooke, etc., Vision of the Rood, in Kimble's VercelU Book, 
translated by Garnett, Cook and Tinker, cf. Brooke; Judith (c, 
856), translated by Garnett, Cook and Tinker; Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle (850-1154), Thorpe (Rolls Series), Giles (E. E. T. S.), 
cf. Cook and Tinker, Morley, Brooke, Ten Brink, etc.; Battle 
of Brunanburh (937), translations by Tennyson, Garnett, Cook 
and Tinker; Battle of Maldon (991), translations by Garnett, 
Brooke, Giles, Hickey (Verse Tales), Lumsden (Macmillan Maga- 
zine, March, 1887); Apollonius of Tyre and other Greek ro- 
mances, Thorpe, Cook and Tinker, Bohn Library. 

II. Fiction about the Period 

Atherstone: 8ea-Kings of England; Babcock: Cian of the 
Chariot; Barr: Tekla; Bride: Eldric the Saxon; Charles: Crip- 
ple of Antioch; Church: Burning of Rome, To the Lions, Two 
Thousand Years Ago; Church and Putnam: Count of the Saxon 
Shore; Collins: Antonia; Dahn: Captive of the Roman Eagles, 
Felicitas, Scarlet Banner; Davis: A Friend of Ccesar ; Dennehy: 
Alethea; DuChaillu: Ivan the Viking; Ebers: The Emperor, 
Sera/phis; Farrar: Darkness and Dawn; French: Lance of 
Kanana; Gardenshire: Lux Eriscis; Gould: Domitia, Perpetua; 
Haggard: The Brethren; Hardy: Passe Rose; Harrison: Theo- 
phano; Henty: Beric the Briton, Dragon and the Raven, Wolf 
the Saxon; Horton: Constantine; Kingsley: Hereward, Eypatia; 
Kouns: Arius the Libyan; Leighton: Olaf the Glorious; Liljen- 
crantz: Thrall of Lief the Lucky; Madison: A Maid of King 
Alfred's Court; Morris: Tale of the House of the Wolfings, The 
Sundering Flood; Newman: Callista; ScheflFel: Ekkehard; Sien- 
kiewicz: Quo Vadis; Strickland: Stories from History; Taylor: 
Tales of the Saxons; Van Dyke: First Christmas Tree, The Lost 
Word; Ware: Aurelian, Zenobia; Waterloo: Story of Ah; Yonge: 
The Cook and the Captain, 



415 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The Nobmatt Pebiod 
I. General 

Billings: Chiide to Middle English Met. Romances; BulflHch: 
Age of Chivalry; Cambridge History of English Literature; 
Chambers: Cyclopedia of English Literature; Chambers: Medieval 
Stories; Child: English and Scotch Ballads; Courthope: History 
of English Poetry; Cox: Popular Romances of the Middle Ages; 
Craik: English Literature and Language; Dictionary of National 
Biography; Ellis: Specimens of Early Metrical Romances; Far- 
nell: Lives of the Troubadours; Fletcher: Arthurian Material in 
the Chronicles; Freeman: Norman Conquest; Furnivall: Early 
English Poems and Lives of the Saints; Gairdner: Early Chron- 
icles; Gross: Sources and Literature of English History; Guest: 
Mabinogion; Hunt: Norman Britain; Hyde: Literary History 
of Ireland; Jusserand: Literary History of the English People, 
Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages; Ker: Epic and Romance; 
Laing: Early Metrical Tales; Literature of all Nations (Edited 
by Hawthorne) ; Manley: English Poetry; Maynadier: Arthur of 
English Poets; Morley: English Writers, Fables of Eng. Lit., 
Medieval Tales; Morris and Skeat: Specimens of Early English; 
Morris: Historical Tales; Mosher, J. A.: Exemplum in Early 
Relig. Lit. of Eng.; Moulton: Library of Literary Criticism; New- 
comer: Twelve Centuries of English Poetry and Prose; Newell: 
King Arthur and the Table Round; Nutt: Celtic and Medieval 
Romance; Nutt: Studies in the Legend of the Holy Grail; 
O'Hagan: Translation of Song of Roland; Paton: Studies in the 
Fairy Mythology of the Arthurian Legend; Pattee: Foundations 
of English Literature; Percy: Reliques; Potvin: High History 
of the Holy Grail; Pyle: Story of King Arthur; Radcliffe College 
Monographs; Phys: Studies in the Arthurian Legend; Pitson: 
Metrical Romances; Saintsbury: Flourishing of Romance; 
Sandys: History of Classical Scholarship; Sehofleld: English Lit- 
erature from the Norman Conquest to Chaucer; Simonds: Intro- 
duction to English Fiction; Smith: Troubadours at Home; Snell: 
Fourteenth Century; Stephen: Stories from Old Chronicles; 
Taine: English Literature; Ten Brink: English Literature; 

416 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Thorns: Early Prose Romances; Traill: Social England; Warner: 
Library of the World's Best Literature; Warren: History of the 
"Novel Previous to the Seventeenth Century; Warton: History of 
English Poetry; Weber: Early Romances; Weston: Legend of 
Sir Gawain, Legend of Sir Lancelot, Legend of Sir Perceval, King 
Arthur and His Knights, Translations of Marie de France, Ro- 
mance Cycle of Charlemagne; Wright: Biographia Britannica 
Literaria. 

II. Fiction of the Period 

Religious Fiction: Cleanness; Debate of the Body and the 
Soul (c. 1150) ; Early English Legendary ( Horstmann ) , E. E. 
T. S.; Genesis and Exodus (1250), E. E. T. S.; History of the 
Holy Rood, E. E. T. S.; Legends of the Holy Rood-Tree, E. E. T. S.; 
Legends of St. George (Matzke), M. L. A., XVII; Lives of the 
Saints, E. E. T. S.; Life of St. Katherine (Capgrave), E. E. T. S.; 
Pearl (Gollancz) ; Robert Manning (1298); Handlyng Synne; 
St. Juliana (1230), E. E. T. S.; Vie de St. Auban (Atkinson). 

Breton Lays in English: Emare (Ritson) ; Erie of Toulous 
(Ritson) ; History of Patient Grissell (Wheatley) ; La Freine 
(Weber) ; Robert the Devil (Hazlitt's Rem.) ; Sir Launfal (Rit- 
son, Kittredge in Amer. Journ. Phil.) ; Sir Orfeo (Ritson, 
Child) ; Weston: Three Days' Tournament. 

Welsh Fiction: Guest's Mabinogion; Hunt's Popular Ro- 
mances of the West of England; Menzies' Legendary Tales of 
Ancient Britons; Nash's Taliesin; Stephens' Literature of Kymry. 

French Fiction in England: Works of Marie de France 
(Weston, Rickett, Schofield in Harvard Studies, V, 22, and M. 
L. A., IV., 121); Chretien de Troyes {Cligds, Eric and Enide, 
Yvain, Lancelot, Guilliaume d'Angleterre, Perceval le Qallois, 
Roman de la Charrette). 

Irish Legends: Hyde: Literary History of Ireland; Croker: 
Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland; Irish Literature (Morris 
Co.). 

Arthurian Legend: Arthur, E. E. T. S.; Fletcher: Arthurian 

Material in the Chronicles; Harvard Studies, X; Gawayne, A 

Collection (Bannatyne Club) ; Geoffrey of Monmouth: History of 

British Kings; Gurteen: Arthurian Epic; King Arthur and King 

27 417 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Cornwall (Madden) ; Layamon: Brut; he Morte Arthur; Mal- 
ory: Morte Darthur; Maynadier: Arthur of the English Poets; 
Morris: Historical Tales; Morte Arthure, E. E. T. S.; Newell: 
King Arthur amd the Table Round; Nutt: Celtic and Medieval 
Romance; Pyle: Story of King Arthur; Ehys: Studies in the 
Arthurian Legend; Wace: Brut d'Angleterre; Weston: King 
Arthur and His Knights. 

The Holy Grail Legend: Bulfinch: Age of Chivalry; History 
of the Holy Grail, E. E. T. S. ; Joseph of Arimathie, E. E. T. S. ; 
Legend of the Holy Grail, E. E. T. S. ; Malory: Morte Darthur; 
Map: Queste de St. Graal; Nutt: Studies in the Legend of the 
Holy Grail; Potvin: High History of the Holy Grail; Weston: 
Parzival and Titurel. 

The Gawain Legend: Avowinge of King Arthur (Robson) ; 
Madden: Sir Gawayne (Bannatyne Club) ; Sir Gawayn (1360), 
Heath; Sir Gawain and the Grene Knight (Weston, Madden, 
E. E. T. S.); Sir Perceval of Galles (Thornton); Wedding of 
Sir Gawen (Ritson) ; Yxoain (Browa in Harvard Studies, VIII) ; 
Ywain and Gawain (Ritson). 

The Lancelot Legend: Furnivall: Lancelot; Furnivall: Early 
English Poems; Lancelot (Bruce), E. E. T. S.; Lancelot of the 
Laik (Skeat, E. E. T. S., Stevenson, Maitland Club), E. E. T. S.; 
Le Morte Arthur (Roxborough) ; Map: Lancelot de Loo. 

The Merlin Legend: Abbot: Arthour and Merlin; Merlin 
(Mead, Kock), E. E. T. S.; Percy: Folio MS.; Wace's Roman 
de Brut, Fletcher in Harvard Studies. 

The King Horn Legend: Hind Horn (Child) King Horn (Mc- 
Knight), E. E. T. S.; Horn and Rimenhild (M. L. A., XVIII) ; 
Horn Childe (Ritson) ; King Horn (Hall) King Horn and 
Floris and Blauncheflur, E. E, T. S.; King Pontus (Mathes 
M. L. A.). 

The Guy of Warwick Legend: Chiy of Warwick (Turnbull), 
E. E. T. S.; GAiy and Phyllis, Guy and Colebrande, Guye and 
Amarant (Percy Folio MS.)- 

Bevis of Hampton (Kolbing), E. E. T. S.; (Turnbull), Mait- 
land. 

The Robin Hood Legend : Child : English and Scottish Ballads; 

418 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Percy: Reliques; Sargent and Kittredge: Ballads, English and 
Scotch. 

The Havelok Legend: Havelok (D. C. Heath); E. E. T. S.; 
Skeat (Oxford); Lai de Havelok (Madden), Roxburgh Club Pub- 
lications. 

Adam Bell (Child). 

Miller of Mansfield (Child). 

Richard Goer de Lion ( Weber ) . 

The Troy Legend: See the works of Geoffrey, Wace, Layamon, 
Map, and Malory; Caxton: Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye 
(Sonimer) ; Caxton: Eneydos, E. E. T. S.; Destruction of Troy 
(Panton and Donaldson), E. E. T. S.; Fletcher on Wace's Brut, 
Harvard Studies, X; Laud Troy Book (Wulfing), E. E. T. S.; 
Lydgate: Romance of Thebes; Sege of Troy (Wager) ; Taylor: 
Classical Heritage of Middle Ages. 

The Alexander Legend: Alexander (Weber) ; Budge: His- 
tory of Alexander the Great; Budge: Life and Exploits of Alex- 
ander; Laing: Alexander Book; Wars of Alexander (Skeat), 
E. E. T. S. 

The Charlemagne Legend: Charles the Crrete, E. E. T. S.; 
Duke Rowlande (Herrtage), E. E. T. S. ; Rouland and Vernagu, 
E. E. T. S.; Song of Roland (Maemillan Co., Butler, O'Hagan, 
Way and Spencer) ; Weston: Romance Cycle of Charlemagne. 

The Blancheflour Legend: Flores and Blancheflour (Laing), 
(McKnight), E. E. T. S. ; Ellis' Specimens; Neilson: Origins and 
Sources of the Court of Love, Harvard Studies, VI. 

Other Classical Legends: Campbell: Seven Sages; Wright: 
Seven Sages (Percy Society) ; for the same themes see Weber's 
and Ellis' Collections; Greek Romances (Bohn) ; Ipomedon 
(Weber) ; Melusine, E. E. T. S. ; Squire of Low Degree (Ritson, 
Mead); William of Palerne (Skeat), E. E. T. S. 

Fabliaux: Dan Hugh Monk (Hazlitt's Rem.) ; Fabliaux (D. 
C. Heath) ; Frere and the Boye (Hazlitt's Rem.) ; Hazlitt: One 
Hundred Merry Tales; How a Merchant Dyd His Wyfe Betray 
(Hazlitt's Rem., Ritson's Ancient Popular Poetry) ; Husband's 
Merry Tale (Hazlitt's Rem.) ; Huntyng of the Hare (Weber) ; 
Laing: Penniworth of Witte; Merry Jest of the Mylner of Abing- 

419 



ENGLISH FICTION 

ton (Hazlitt's Rem.) ; Ploivman's Paternoster (Halliwell's Early 
English Miscellanies, Hazlitt's Rem.). 

Beastiaries, Animal Fables, etc.: Caxton: ^sop (Jacobs); 
Caxton: Reynard the Fox (Arber) ; Holland: Buke of Howlate 
(Laing) ; Henryson: Moral Fables of ^sop (Laing) ; Old Eng- 
lish Miscellany, E. E. T. S.; Tales from Pali (Morris) ; The Fox 
and the Wolf (Percy Society). 

III. Fiction about the Period 

Ainsworth: Merrie England; Aquilar: Days of Bruce; Berke- 
ley: Berkeley Castle; Brady: Hohentzollern; Charles: Joan the 
Maid; Chetwoode: Knight of the Oolden Chain; Converse: Long 
Will; Coosland: Stories of London; Crawford: Via Crucis; 
Davis: Falaise of the Blessed Voice; Davis: God Wills It; Davis: 
8aint of the Dragon's Dale; Edgar: Crecy and Poitier; Edgar: 
Runnymede and Lincoln Fair; Egan: Robin Hood; French: Sir 
Marrok; Gilliat: First Outlaws, John Standish, King's Leave; 
Gomme: King's Story Book; Hale: In His Name; Henty: In 
Freedom's Cause, Lion of St. Mark, March on London, St. 
George for England; Hewlett: Fond Adventures; New Canter- 
bury Tales; Richard Tea-and-Nay; Ingemann: King Eric and 
the Outlaws; James: Forest Days, Agincourt; Larned: Arnaud's 
Masterpiece; Lytton: Harold, Last of the Barons, Rienzi; 
Mackay: Camp of Refuge; Meakin: The Assassins; Meville: 
Sarchedon; Miller: Raoul and Iron Hand, Under the Eagle's 
Wing; Napier: William the Conqueror; Porter: Scottish Chiefs; 
Potter: TJncanonized; Pyle: Man of Iron; Otto of the Silver 
Land; Rydeberg; Singvalla; Scott: Betrothed, Castle Dangerous, 
Count Robert, Fair Maid of Perth, Ivanhoe, Talisman; Sienkie- 
wicz: Knights of the Cross; Stanhope: Sign of Kenilvxyrth; 
Stevens: I Am The King; Stoddard: With the Black Prince; 
Tappan: In the Days of William the Conqueror; Twain: Joan 
of Arc; White: John of Gaunt, Richard Coeur de Lion; Yonge: 
Dove in the Eagle's Nest, Lances of Lynwood, Little Prince, 
Prince and the Page, Wardship of Steepcoombe. 



420 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The Fourteenth and Fifteenth CENTtnoES 

I. General Works, and Fiction of the Period 

Ancient Songs and Ballads (Ed. Ritson) ; Baldwin: Famous 
Allegories; Barbour: The Bruce (Ed. Skeat, E. E. T. S.) ; Bates: 
English Religious Dramas; Bishop Percy's Folio MS. (Ed. Hales 
and Furnivall, Ballad Society) ; Blades: Ldfe of Caxton ; Boc- 
caccio: Decameron (Ed. Payne, Wright) ; Browne: Chaucer's 
England; Buckle: History of Civilization; Century Readings in 
English Literature (Ed. Cunliffe, Pyre, and Young) ; Chaucer: 
Works (Ed. Morris, Nicholas, Saunders, Skeat, etc.) ; Chronicon 
Angliae (Ed. Thompson) ; Courthope: History of English Poetry; 
Craik: English Literature and Language; Craik: English Prose; 
Cross: Development of English Novel; Cursor Mundi (Ed. Mor- 
ris, E. E. T. S.) ; Davy's Five Dreams (Ed. Furnivall, E. E. T. 
S.); Douglas: Works (Ed. Small); Dunbar: Works (Ed. Small 
and Mackay) ; Dunlop: History of Fiction; English and Scottish 
Ballads (Child, Gummere, Bates) ; English Gilds (Ed. Smith, 
E. E. T. S.) ; English Prose Treatises of Richard Rolle (Ed. 
Perry, E. E. T. S.) ; Froissart: Chronicles (Ed. Lace, Johnes) ; 
Froude: History of England; Gairdner: Houses of Lancaster and 
York ; Gesta Romanorum ( Ed. Herrtage ) ; Godwin : Life of 
Chaucer; Gower: Confessio Amantis (Morley, Pauli), Vox 
Clamantis (Roxburgh Club); Green: Shorter History of the 
English People; Harrison: Description of England (Ed. Furni- 
vall, New Shakespeare Society) ; Hawes: Pastime of Pleasure 
(Percy Society) ; Henryson: Works (Ed. Laing) ; Hoccleve: De 
Regimine Principum (Ed. Wright, Roxburgh Club), Works (Ed. 
Furnivall, E. E. T. S.) ; James I: King's Quhair (Ed. Todd); 
Jessopp: Coming of the Friars; Jusserand: Literary History of 
English People, Piers Ploicman, Wayfaring Life in the Four- 
teenth Century; King Edivard IPs Household and Wardrobe 
Ordinances (Ed. Furnivall, Chaucer Society) ; King Horn (Ed. 
Lumby, E. E. T. S.) : Knights Hospitallers in England (Ed. 
Larking and Kimble, Camden Society) ; Langland: Piers Ploio- 
man (Ed. J. Morris, Skeat, etc.) ; Lanier: Boy's Froissart, Boy's 
King Arthur; Lecky: History of Morals; Life Records of ChauA}er 

421 



ENGLISH FICTION 

(Chaucer Society); Lounsbury: Studies in Chaucer; Lowell: 
Essay on Chaucer; Lydgate: Minor Poems (Ed. Halliwell, Percy 
Society), Temple of Olas (Ed. Schick, E. E. T. S.) ; Malory: 
Morte Darthur (Ed. Mead, Sommer, Southey) ; Mandeville: 
Travels (Bohn, Ed. Halliwell) ; Manly: English Poets, Specimens 
of Pre- Shakespearian Drama; Marsh: English Language; Mill: 
Chivalry; Minto: Characteristics of English Poets; Morley: Eng- 
lish Writers, Memoirs of Bartholomeiv Fair; Morris and Skeat: 
Specimens of Middle English; Morte Arthure (Ed. Brock, E. E. 
T. S.) ; Newcomer: Twelve Centuries of English Prose and 
Poetry; Nicholas: Life of Chaucer; Owl and 'Nightingale (Ed. 
Stevenson, Roxburghe) ; Paston Letters (Bohn, Ed. Gairdner) ; 
Pierce the Ploughman's Crede (Ed. Skeat, E. E. T. S.) ; Political, 
Religious, and Love Poems (Ed. Furnivall, E. E. T. S.) ; Pollard: 
Chaucer, English Miracle Plays; Poole: Wycliffe and Movements 
for Reform; Reliquae Antiquae (Ed. Wright and Halliwell) ; 
Riley: Memorials of London; Robert of Brunne: Handlyng Sinne 
(Ed. Furnivall, Roxburghe Club); Rogers: History of Agricul- 
ture and Prices in England; Romances of Chivalry (Ed. Ash- 
ton) ; Schofield: English Literature from the Norman Conquest 
to Chaucer; Scott: Essay on Chivalry; Scudder: Social Ideals in 
English Letters; Select Charters (Ed. Stubbs) ; Sargeant: Life 
of Wickliffe; Simpson: St. Paul's Cathedral and Old City Life; 
Sir Gauxiin and the Green Knight (Ed. Morris, E. E. T. S.) ; 
Skelton: Poems (Ed. Dyce) ; Songs and Carols (Ed. Wright, 
Percy Society) ; Stubbes: Anatomy of Abuses (Ed. Furnivall, 
New Shakespeare Society); Symonds: Shakespeare's Predeces- 
sors; Taine: English Literature; Ten Brink: Chaucer Studies; 
Thorns: Early English Prose Romances; Thornton Romances 
(Ed. Halliwell, Camden Society) ; Tolman: Bibliography of Eng- 
lish DraAua before Elizabeth; Travels of Nicander Nucius (Cam- 
den Society) ; Trevelyan: England in the Age of Wycliffe; 
Tuckerman: History of English Prose-Fiction; Warburton: Ed- 
ward III; Ward: Catalogue of Romances in the Department of 
MS8. in the British Museum, English Poets, Life of Chaucer; 
Warner: Buke of John Maundevill (Roxburghe Club) ; English 
History in Shakespeare's Plays; Warton : History of English 
Poetry; Way: Fabliaux or Tales; Welch: English Masterpiece 

422 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Course; Wickliffe: Bible (Ed. Forsliall and Madden) ; Selected 
English Works (Ed. Arnold) ; WilUain of Palerne (Ed. Skeat) ; 
Wright's Chaste Wife (Ed. Furnivall, E. E. T. S.) ; Wright: 
Domestic Manners and Sentiments; Manners and Sentiments in 
the Middle Ages; Political Poems and Songs. 

II. Fiction about the Period 

Barr: Prince of Good Fellmos ; Charles; Chronicles of the 
Schonberg-Cotta Family, Joan the Maid; Church: Priest of Bar- 
net; Coryell: Diccon the Bold, Diego Pinzon; Crawford: Marietta; 
Crockett: Black Douglas; Doyle: White Company; Ebers: A 
Word, Only a Word, Barbara Blomberg; Eliot: Romola; Far- 
rington: Fra Lippo Lippi; Fenn: Frank and Saxon; Gomme: 
Princess Story Book; Gunsaulus: Monk and Knight; Henty: At 
Agincourt, Both Sides the Border, Knight of the White Cross; 
Hugo: Hunchback of Wotre Dame; Isham: Under the Rose; 
Kingsley: Westward Ho; Lang: Monk of Fife; Ludlow: Cap- 
tain of the Janizaries; Major: When Knighthood was in Flower/ 
Reade: Cloister and Hearth; Rosegger: The God Seeker; San- 
ders: For Prince and People; Sawyer: All's Fair in Love, Every 
Inch a King; Scott: Abbot, Anne of Gierstein, Monastery, Quen- 
tin Durward; Stevenson: The Black Arrow; Taylor: House of 
the Wizard; Turnbull: Golden Book of Venice; Twain: Joan of 
Arc; Whiteley: Fulcon of Langiac; Wolff: Salt Master of Lunl- 
burg. 

The Sixteenth ajstd Seventeenth Centuries 

/. General Works, and Fiction of the Period 

Amadis de Gaula (Tr. Munday, Ed. Southey) ; Arber: Eng- 
lish Garner; Ascham: The Scholemaster (Arber) j Ascham: 
Works, (Library of Old Authors, and Giles) ; Ballads and Ro- 
mances (Ed. Hales and Furnivall, Ballad Society) ; Barbauld: 
Correspondence of Samuel Richardson; Barclay: Argenis (Eng- 
lish tr. Le Grys) ; Behn: Complete Works (Ed. Pearson); 
Bemer: Froissart's Chronicles; Biesly: Queen Elizabeth; Blades: 
Life and Typography of William Caxton; Bourne: Memoir of 
Sir Philip Sidney; Bourne: Sir Philip Sidney; Breton: Works 
(Ed. Grosart) ; Bridgett: Life of More; Bunyan: Holy War, 

423 



I ENGLISH FICTION 

Life and Death of Mr. Badman, The Pilgrim's Progress; Captain 
Coa? (Ed. Furnivall, Ballad Society) ; (7awaf . . . for . . . 
Vagabonds ( Ed. Harman, E, E. T. S. ) ; Clark : English Prose 
Writers; Cook: The Bible and English Prose Style; Craik: 
English Prose; Creighton: Age of Elizabeth; Cross: Development 
of the English Novel; Davis: Life and Tdmes of Sir Philip Sid- 
ney; Dekker: Works (Ed. Grosart) ; Dickenson's Prose and 
Terse (Ed. Grosart) ; Douce: Illustrations of Shakespeare; Dow- 
den: Transcripts and Studies; Drake: Shakespeare and His 
Times; Dunlop: History of Fiction; Early Prose Romances (Ed. 
Morley) ; Fraternity of Vagabonds (Audeley, E. E. T. S.) ; 
Froude: History of England; Furnivall: Leopold Shakespere; 
Furnivall: Story of England; Gosse: Jacobean Poets; Gosse: 
Seventeenth Century Studies; Gray: Life of Sidney; Green: 
Short History of the English People; Greene: History of Friar 
Bacon and Friar Bungay (Ed. Ward), Menaphon (Arber), Poems 
(Ed. Bell), Works (Ed. Grosart); Gummere; Old English Bal- 
lads; Hallam: Literature of Europe; Hannay: The Latin 
Renaissance; Harrington: Oceana; Harrison: Elizabethan Eng- 
land; Hart: Euphuism; Hazlitt: Elizabethan Literature; Her- 
ford: Literary Relations of England and Germany in the Six- 
teenth Century; Holliday: Cavalier Poets; Jusserand: English 
Novel in the Time of Shakespeare; Jusserand: Literary History 
of the English People; Kent: Designs of Inigo Jones; Lamb: 
Notes on Elizabethan Dramatists; Landmann: Shakespeare and 
Euphuism (New Shakespeare Society, 1884) ; Lanier: English 
Novel; Lee: Life of Shakespeare, Literature of all Nations (Ed. 
Hawthorne) ; Lodge: Complete Works (Ed. Gosse, Hunterian 
Club ) , Forbonius and Presceria ( Shakespeare Society ) , Rosa- 
lynde (Ed. Baldwin, Hazlitt, Morley), The Margarite of America 
(Ed. Halliwell) ; Lowell: Old British Dramatists; Lyly: Dra- 
matic Works (Ed. Fairholt), Endymion (Ed. Baker), Euphues 
(Arber), Euphues and His England (Arber), Euphues (Ed. 
Landmann) j Malory: Morte Darthur (Ed. Summer and Long) ; 
Masson: British Novelists; Masson: Life and Times of John 
Milton; Melville: Travels (Ed. Morley) ; Moberly: Early Tudors; 
Monson: Life of More; More: Utopia (Arber, Pitt Press) ; Mor- 
ley: English Writers; Morley: "Euphues" London Quarterly Re- 

424 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

vieiv, April, 1861; Moulton: History of the English Bible; Muse's 
Library (Ed. Chambers and Saintsbury) ; Nash: Works (Ed. 
Grosart) ; North: Plutarch's Lives; Old English Miscellany (Ed. 
Morris, E. E. T. S.) ; Painter: Palace of Pleasure (Ed. Jacobs) ; 
Palgrave; Golden Treasury; Pattee: Foundations of English Liter- 
ature; Pears: Correspondence of Sir Philip Sidney and E. Languet; 
Perry: Reformation in England; Plasidas and Other Rare Pieces 
(Ed. Gibbs, Roxburghe Club) ; Quick: Educational Reformers; 
Raleigh: The English Novel; Saintsbury: Elizabethan Literature; 
Schaflf: The Renaissance; Shakespeare's Library (Ed. Collier and 
Hazlitt) ; Schelling: Elizabethan Lyrics; Schelling: Life and 
Writings of George Gascoigne; Seebohm: Era of the Protestant 
Revolution; Seebohm: Oxford Reformers; Shakespeare Jest-books 
(Ed. Hazlitt) ; Sidney: Arcadia (Ed. Friswell, Sampson, Low, 
and Marston), Astrophel and Stella (Ed. Pollard), Defense of 
Poesie (Arber), Works (Ed. Grosart); Simonds: Introduction 
to English Prose Fiction; Stoddard: English Novel; Stone: 
Chronicles of Fashion; Symonds: Life of Jonson, Life of Sir 
Philip Sidney, Renaissance in Italy; Taine: History of English 
Literature; Tale of Gamelyn (Ed. Skeat) ; Temple: Miscellanea; 
Thoms: Early English Prose Romances; Thornbury: Shake- 
speare's England; Thorpe: Codex Exoniensis; Ticknor: History 
of Spanish Literature; Tottel's Miscellany ( Arber ) ; Traill : So- 
cial England; Travels of Nicander Nucius (Ed. Cramer, Camden 
Society ) ; Tuckerman : History of English Prose Fiction ; Upham : 
French Influence in Eng. Lit.; Walton: Complete Works (Ed. 
Church) ; Ward: English Poets; Ward: History of English Dra- 
matic Literature; Warner: The People for Whom Shakespeare 
Wrote; Warren: The Novel Previous to the Seventeenth Century; 
Watson: Poems (Arber) ; Welch: English Masterpiece Course; 
Whipple: Literature of the Age of Elizabeth; Wolff, S. L., Greek 
Romances in Eliz. Prose Fiction; Wright: Essays on the Middle 
Ages. 

II. Fiction about the Period 

Abcock: Under Calvin's Spell; Ainsworth: Chiy Fawkes, Old 
Scrnit Paul's, Tower Hill, Tower of London, Windsor Castle; 

425 



ENGLISH FICTION 

Bailey: My Lady of Orange; Barr: Friend Olivia, Lion's Whelp, 
Over the Border; Barry: The Dayspring; Bennett: Master Sky- 
lark; Benson: By What Authority; Besant: For Faith and Free- 
dom; Black: Judith Shakespeare; Burton: Scourge of God; Chet- 
woode: John of Strathhourne ; Church: John Marmaduke, Pen- 
ruddock of the White Lambs, With the King at Oxford; Clark: 
Will Shakespeare's Little Lad; Cooke: My Lady Pokahontas; 
Couch: Splendid Spur, Lockinvar, Red Axe, Standard Bearer; 
Dearborn: Lionel Arden; Dickson: Black Wolf's Breed; Dix: 
Hugh Gwyeth, Life, Treason, and Death of James Blount; Doyle: 
Micah Clarke; Drummond: Man of His Age; Dumas: Man in the 
Iron Mask, Page of the Duke of Sawoy, Two Dianas; Farmer: 
Grand Mademoiselle; Fenn: Black Tor; Fletcher: In the DaAfS 
of Drake; Mistress Spitfire, When Charles the First was King; 
Gautier: Captain Fracasse; Gomme: Princess Story Book; 
Gould: Ou,avas the Tinner; Haggard: Lysheth; Hall: Brave 
Days of Old; Henty: St. Bartholomew's Eve, Under Drake's 
Flag, When London Burned, Won by the Sword; Hewlett : Queen's 
Quair; Hinkson: Golden Lily, Silk and Steel; Hope: Simon Dale; 
James: Arabella, Stuart, Heidelburg, Henry Masterton, Richelieu, 
Russell, The Cavalier; Johnson: The King's Benchman; John- 
ston: To Have and to Hold; Keightday: Silver Cross, The Cava- 
liers, The Crimson Sign; Lee: Key of the Holy House, King Stork 
of Netherlands; Leighton: Golden Galleon; Lyall: In Spite of All, 
In the Golden Days; McChesney: Miriam Cromwell; MacDonald: 
God Save the King; MacGrath: Grey Cloak; McManus: The Silk 
of the Mine; Major: Dorothy Vernon; Manning: Cherry and Vio- 
let, Diary of Mary Powell, Household of Sir Thomas More; 
Marryatt: Children of the New Forest; Marshall: In the Choir 
of Westminster Abbey, Kensington Palace, Under the Dome of 
St. PaAil's; Mason: Courtship of Morrice Buckler; Melville: 
Holmby House; Moore: Castle Omeragh; Muhlbach: Henry VIII; 
Munro: John Splendid; Noble: Ryhoves of Anticerp; O'Grady: 
In the Wake of King James, Ulrick the Ready; Oliphant: Mag- 
dalen Hepburn; Paterson: CromioelVs Own; Ran: Mozart; Reed: 
No Quarter, The White Gauntlet; Robert: In the Olden Time; 
Sheard: By the Queen's Grace; Scott: Bride of Lammermoor, 
Feveril of the Peak, Fortunes of Nigel, Kenilworth, Lady of the 

426 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Lake, Legend of Montrose, Marmion, Old Mortality, The Pirate, 
Woodstock; Seawell: House of Egremont; Shorthouse: John 
Inglesant; Sienkiewicz: Deluge, Pan Michael; Smith: Bramble- 
tye House; Stephens: A Gentleman Player; Taylor: My Lady 
Clancarty, The Cardinal's Musketeer; Twain: Prince and Pauper; 
Vallings: By Dulvercomhe Water; Vigny: Cinq-Mars; Weyman: 
Count Hannibal, Gentleman of France, House of the Wolf, My 
Lady Rotha, Shrewsbury, Story of Francis Cludde, Under the 
Red Robe; Wilson : Rose of Normandy; Yeats : Chevalier d'Auriac, 
Orrain; Yonge: Last of the Cavaliers, Unknown to History. 

The Eighteenth Century 
/. General Works, and Fiction of the Period 

Addison: Spectator, ed. Morley; Ashton: Social Life in the 
Reign of Queene Anne; Bage: Works ( Ballentyne's Novelist's 
Library) ; Barbauld: Correspondence of Richardson; Beckford: 
Vathek, ed. Garnett; Beers: English Romanticism, Eighteenth 
Century; Black: Life of Goldsmith; Boswell: Life of Johnson; 
Brooke: Fool of Quality, ed. Kingsley; Browne: Estimate of 
the Times; Bunyan: Works, ed. Offer; Burn: History of Fleet 
Marriages; Burney: Evelina and Cecilia, ed. R. B. Johnson; 
Carlyle: BoswelVs Life of Johnson; Carter and Talbot Corre- 
spondence, ed. Pennington; Chesterfield: Correspondence; Cole- 
ridge: Table Talk; Collins: Life of Swift; Conant, M. P.: Ori- 
ental Tales; Courthope: Life of Addison; Craik: English 
Prose; Craik: Life of Swift; Cross: Development of the 
English Novel; Cross: Life and Times of Sterne; D'Arblay: 
Diary and Letters, ed. Barrett; Day: Sanford and Merton (St. 
Nicholas Series) ; Defoe: Romances and Narratives, ed. Aitkin, 
Robinson Crusoe (with bibliography), ed. Dobson; Delany 
(Mrs.) : Autobiography; De Quincey: Literary Reminiscences; 
Dictionary of National Biography; Disraeli: Curiosities of Lit- 
erature; Dobson: Eighteenth Century Vignettes; Dobson: Life of 
Fielding, Life of Goldsmith, Life of Steele; Earle: Microcosmog- 
raphy, ed. Bliss (see Appendix for "character" books) ; Edge- 
worth : Works ( New Longford Ed. ) ; Evelyn : Diary ( Cassell ) ; 
Ferriar: Illustrations of Sterne; Fielding: Works, ed. Saints- 

427 



ENGLISH FICTION 

bury; Fitzgerald: Life of Sterne; Fleet: Glimpses of Our Ances- 
tors; Forster: Life and Times of Goldsmith, Life of Swift; 
Forsyth: Novels and Novelists of the Eighteenth Century; God- 
win (Mary) : Vindication of the Rights of Woman; Godwin 
(Wm.) : Caleb Williams, Political Justice; Goethe: Dichtung und 
Wahrheit; Goldsmith: Life of Beau Nash, Vicar of Wakefield; 
Gosse: Eighteenth Century Literature; Green: Short History of 
English People; Grant: Samuel Johnson; Hazlitt: English Nov- 
elists, Memoirs of Defoe, Spirit of the Age; Hervey: Memoirs of 
George II; Hill: Writers and Readers; Inchbald: Nature and 
Art (Cassell) ; Irving: Life of Goldsmith; Jeaffreson: Book of 
the Clergy; Johnson: Rasselas; Lecky: History of England in 
the Eighteenth Century, History of European Morals, Rise and 
Influence of Rationalism in Europe; Lee: Life of Defoe; Lowell: 
My Study Windows; Macaulay: Essay on Johnson; Mackenzie: 
Man of Feeling (Cassell) ; Minto: Daniel Defoe; Morgan, C. E.: 
The Novel of Manners; Opie: Works (Boston, 1827) ; Orrery: Life 
and Writings of Swift; Pashley: Pauperism and the Poor Laws; 
Phelps: Beginnings of the English Romantic Movement; Pike: His- 
tory of Crime; Porter: Progress of the Nation; Porter (Jane): 
Works (Oxford Series) ; Ramsay: Reminiscences of Scottish Life 
and Character; Reeve: Old English Baron (Cassell) ; Richard- 
son: Correspondence, ed. Barbauld, Works, ed. Leslie Stephen; 
Eoscoe: Life of Swift; Schmidt: Richardson, Rousseau and 
Goethe; Scott: Life of Richardson, Memoirs of Johnson; Shelley: 
Frankenstein (Routledge) ; Simonds: Introduction to English 
Fiction; Smollett: Works, ed. Henley, ed. Saintsbury; Stephen: 
History of English Thought, Life of Johnson, Life of Swift; 
Sterne: Works, ed. Saintsbury; Stoddard: Evolution of the Eng- 
lish Novel; Strutt: Sports and Pastimes; Swift: Works, ed. T. 
Scott; Sydney: England and the English in the Eighteenth Cen- 
tury; Taine: English Literature; Thackeray: English Humorists; 
Trevelyan: Early History of Charles James Fox; Tuckerman: 
History of Prose Fiction; Ullrich : Robinson and Robinsonaden ; 
Walpole: Castle of Otranto (Cassell), Letters, ed. Cunningham; 
Wesley: Journal; Wilson: Memoirs of Defoe; Wright: Carica- 
ture History of the Georges. 

428 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



77. Fiction about the Period 

Allen: Called to the Front; Balfour: To Arms; Balzac: The 
Chouans; Barr: Bernica; Besant: A Fountain Sealed, Bernicia, 
Dorthy Forstcr, Lady of Lynn, No Other Way, 8t. Katherine's 
by the Tower; Brady: For Love of Country; Butterworth: 
Knight of Liberty; Capes: Adventures of the Comte de la Muette; 
Catherwood: Lazarre; Charles: Diary of Mrs. Kitty Trevylyan; 
Child: Puritan Wooing; Churchill: Richard Carvel; Coffin: 
Daughters of the Revolution; Coleridge: King with Two Faces; 
Couch: Hetty Wesley, The Westcotes; Dickens: Barnaby Rudge, 
Tale of Two Cities; Dorr : In Kings' Houses; Dumas : Ange Pitou, 
Countess de Charney, The Conspirators; Erckmann-Chatrian : 
Country in Danger, Madame Therese; Ford: Janice Meredith; 
Goldemar: Robespierre; Godwin: Caleb Williams; Goldsmith: 
Vicar of Wakefield; Gomme: Queen's Story Book; Graa: Ride of 
the Midi; Hayes: A Kent Squire; Henty: Bonnie Prince Charlie, 
Cornet of Horse, Held Fast for England, With Frederick the 
Great; Hough: Mississippi Bubble; Hugo: 'Ninety-Three; King: 
Kitwyk Stories; Kingsley: Mademoiselle Mathilde; Lane: Nancy 
Stair; Lever: Gerald Fitzgerald; McAulay: Poor Sons of a Day, 
The Rhymer; McLennan: Spanish John; Marshall: Master of the 
Musicians; Martineau: The Peasant and the Prince; Mitchell: 
Adventures of Frangois; Moore: Impudent Comedian, Nest of 
Linnets; Muhlbach: Berlin and Sans-Souci; Parker: Battle of 
the Strong; Pemberton: Love the Harvester; Price: In the 
Lion's Mouth; Rau: Beethoven; Rhoscomyl: For the White Rose 
of Arno; Scott: Antiquary, Black Dwarf, Guy Mannering, Heart 
of Midlothian, Redgauntlet, Waverley ; Seawell: Loves of the 
Lady Arabella, The Rock of the Lion; Sienkiewicz: With Fire 
and Sword; Simpson: The Sovereign Power; Stephens: Con- 
tinental Dragoon; Stevenson: Kidnapped; Sutcliffe: Ricroft of 
Withens; Tarkington: Monsieur Beaucaire; Thackeray: Esmond; 
Weyman: Red Cockade; Wharton: Valley of Decision; Xenos: 
Andronike. 



429 



ENGLISH FICTION 

The Nineteenth Centuby 
I. General Works, and Fiction of the Period 

Austen: Works, ed. R. B. Johnson; Austen-Leigh: A Memoir 
of Jane Austen; Bagehot: Literary Studies; Balfour: Life of 
Stevenson; Bayne: Essays in Biography and Criticism; Birrell: 
Charlotte Bronte; Bronte (C. E. and A.) : Works, ed. Greig; 
Blind: George Eliot; Browning (Oscar) ; Life of George Eliot; 
Carleton: Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, ed. O'Don- 
oghue; Carlyle: Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, Essay on 
Scott, Latter Day Pamphets; Craik: English Prose; Crawford: 
The Novel: What It Is; Cross: George Eliot; Davey: Darwin, 
Carlyle, and Dickens; Dickens: Works, ed. Lang; Dowden: 
Studies in Literature; Ferrier (Susan) : Novels, ed. R. B. 
Johnson; Fields: Yesterdays with Authors; Forster: Life of 
Dickens; Gait: Novels, ed, Meldrum; Gaskell: Life of Charlotte 
Bronte; Gates: Three Studies in Literature; Gissing: Charles 
Dickens; Harrison: Early Victorian Literature; Herford: Age 
of Wordsivorth; Howard: State of Prisons in England and Wales; 
Howells : Criticism and Fiction; Hunnewell : Lands of Scott; Hut 
ton: Essays in Literary Criticism, Essays on Some of the Mod 
em Glides of English Thought in Matters of Faith, Life of Scott; 
Irving: Abbotsford; James (G. P. R.) : Works (Routledge Lib.) 
James (H.) : Partial Portraits; Kaufmann: Life of Kingsley; 
Kingsley (Mrs.) : Charles Kingsley, His Letters and Memories 
of His Life; Knight: Popular History of England; Lang: Let- 
ters to Dead Authors; Lanier: The English Novel; Lockhart: 
Life of Scott, Journal of Sir Walter Scott; Lover: Handy Andy, 
ed. Whibley ; Lowell : Among My Books; Lytton : Life of Edward 
Bulwer; Macaulay: Essay on Mme. d^Arblay; McCarthy: His- 
tory of Our Own Times; Mackail: Life of Morris; Mackintosh: 
Miscellaneous Works; Marryat: Novels, ed. R. B. Johnson; 
Marzial: Life of Dickens; Masson: British Novelists; Matthews: 
The Short Story; Maxwell: Stories of Waterloo, The Bivouac 
(Notable Novels Series); Melville: Life of Thackeray; Mitford: 
Our Village, ed. Ritchie; Morier: Hajji Baba, ed. Curzon; Mor- 
ley: English Literature in the Reign of Victoria; Peacock: 

430 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

'Novels, ed. Saintsbury; Saintsbury: History of Nineteenth Cen- 
tury Literature; Scott: Works, ed. Farrar; Shorter: Charlotte 
Bronte and Her Circle, Victorian Literature; Smith: Life of 
Jane Austen; Stephen: Hours in a Library; Stevenson: Memories 
and Portraits, Works (Thistle Ed.) ; Thackeray: Works, ed. 
Ritchie ; Traill : Social England; Trelawny : Records of Shelley, 
Byron, and the Author; Trollope (A.) : An Autobiography, Life 
of Thackeray ; Walker: Age of Tennyson; Ward: Life of Dickens; 
Whipple: Essays and Reviews; Woolson: George Eliot and Her 
Heroines; Yonge: Life of Scott; Zola: Le Roman Experimental, 
tr. Sherman. 

Consult Poole's Index for innumerable magazine articles on 
fiction and writers of the century. 

77. Fiction about the Period 

Barr: I, Thou, and the Other One; Benson: The Capsina, The 
Vintage; Berger: Charles Auchester; Besant: All Sorts and Con- 
ditions of Men; Blackmore: Alice Lorraine, Perlycross, Spring- 
haven; Blake: Courtship by Command; Buchanan: Shadow of 
the Sicord; Burnett: Little Lord Fauntleroy; Caine: Manxman; 
Capes: Love Like a Gipsy; Chambers: Lorraine, The Red Re- 
public; Claritie: Vincomte de Puyjoli; Crocker: Beyond the 
Pale; Crockett: Banner of Blue, Lads' Love; Dickens: Nicholas 
Nickleby; Doyle: A Duet with an Occasional Chorus, Rodney 
Stone; Eliot: Felix Holt; Garibaldi: Rule of the Monk; Gaskell: 
Mary Barton; Gissing: Demos, New Grub St; Henty: At Abou- 
kir and Acre, Through Russian Snows, Under Wellington's Com- 
mand, Young Franc-Tireurs ; Hughes: Tom Broion's School Days; 
James: The Aiokward Age, Europeans; Jokai: The Nameless 
Castle; Lever: Maurice Tiernay ; Margueritte: The Disaster; 
Marshall: In Four Reigns; Mathews: My Lady Peggy Goes to 
Town; Meredith: One of Our Conquerors; Sutcliffe: Mistress 
Barbara; Thackeray: Neweomes, Vanity Fair; Tolstoi: The Cos- 
sacks; Trollope: Phineas Finn; Watson: Beside the Bonnie Briar 
Bush. 

The Twentieth Century 

For trustworthy information about the novels and novelists of 
the present century, the reader is compelled to reply upon maga- 

431 



ENGLISH FICTION 

zines dealing with contemporary literature. Among the best of 
these in America are the Bookman, Current Literature, The Dial, 
and the Book-News Monthly. Consult Poole's Index of Periodical 
Literature, or Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature. 



432 



INDEX 



'E 



Absentee, 282 

Adam Bede, 350, 351, 352, 354, 
358 

Addison, 171, 192, 199, 200, 
203-4, 215, 278 

Admirable and Memorable His- 
tories, 139 

Admiral's Daughter, 375 

Adventures of a Guinea, 200, 
262 

Adventures of an Atom, 241 

Adventures of Arthur, 97 

Adventures of Cherubina, 312 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 
389 

Agnes Grey, 374 

Ainsworth, 302, 375 

Alom Fitzosborne, 269 

Alexander Legend, 64, 65, 66, 
71, 73, 77 

Alex Forbes, Z14: 

Alfred, King, 44 

Alice for Short, 397 

Alice in Wonderland, 308, 374 

All Soi'ts and Conditions, 374 

A. L. O. E. (See Tucker.) 

Alton Locke, 342 

Alwyn, 274 

Amadis of Gaul, 181 

Amazing Marriage, 358 

Amelia, 200, 237 

American Notes, 321 

Anastasiu^, 311 

Anatomy of Absurdity, 174 

Anatomy of Abuses, 109 

Anatomy of Melancholy, 251 

Andreas, 33 



Angel of Pain, 397 

Anglo-Sawon Chronicle, 43, 55 

Anna of the Five Towns, 387 

Anna St. Ives, 274 

Annals of the Parish, 301, 312 

Antiquarian Romances, 269 

Antiquary, 300 

Apolloniu^ of Tyre, 48, 50 

Arabian Nights, 115 

Arbasto, 153, 155 

Arbisbas, 152 

Arbuthnot, 251 

Arcadm, 166, 167 

Argenis, 144 

Ariosio, 118 

Arthur, 103 

Arthur and Merlin, 99i 

Arthur Arundel, 302 

Arthurian Legend, 62, 64, 65, 

73, 75, 77, 87, 122, 264 
Arthur of Little Britain, 117, 

139 
Ascension, 30 
Ascliam, 138, 140 
Assembly of the Gods, 136 
Astrophel and Stella, 165, 166 
Aucassin and Nicolette, 71 
Auld Licht Idylls, 380, 381 
Austen, 217, 227, 282, 283, 286- 

292, 306, 311, 312, 319, 334, 

342, 345, 346, 347, 357, 376 
Austen's Influence, 341-2 
A. W., Mrs., 172 
Ayrshire Legatees, 311 



B 



Bage, 273, 275 
Bandello, 118, 139 



433 



INDEX 



Barbour, 118 

Ba/rchester Towers, 356 

Barclay, 144 

Barham, 312 

Barham Downs, 273, 274 

Barrett, 312 

Barrie, 370, 380, 381, 405 

Barry Lyndon, 331, 336, 338 

Battle of Brunanhurh, 44 

Battle of Finnsburg, 15, 18 

Battle of Maldon, 44 

Battle of the Books, 210 

Baxter, 180 

Beauchamp's Career, 358 

Beekford, 266, 316 

Bede, 25 

Behn, 182, 184, 216, 278 

Bek, 81, 84 

Belinda, 194, 282 

Bellamy, 145, 304 

Belnimi of London, 178 

Beloved Vagabond, 400 

Benoit, 66, 67 

Bennett, 387, 388 

Benson, A. C, 380, 394, 395, 396 

Benson, E. F., 394, 396, 397 

Beovmlf, 8, 35, 37, 48 

Bergerac, 144 

Berington, 145 

Besant, 374 

Beside Still Waters, 380, 394 

Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush, 

380, 381 
Bpstiaries, 63 
Betrothed, 302 
Beves of Hampton, 57, 59, 65 
Black, 355, 367 
Black Bookes Messenger, 159 
Black but Comely, 374 
Black Douglas, 382 
Blackniore, 355, 367 
Black Prophet, 375 
Blanchefleur and Floris, 71 
Blazing World, 145 
Blue Fairy Book, 381 
Boccaccio, 118, 119 
Boiardo, 118 
Bondsman, 385 



Book of Duke Huon, 77 

Book of Ma/rtyrs, 180, 189 

Book of Snobs, 331, 336 

Borrow, 344 

Boy and the Mantle, 91 

Boyle, 182-183 

Brambletye House, 302 

Bray, 302 

Breton, 160-161 

British Recluse, 216 

Broke of Covenden, 397 

Bronte, A., 374 

Bronte, C, 345-8, 374 

Brooke, 269 

Brown, 301 

Browne, 180 

Brut, 66, 80 

Brut d'Angleterre, 66, 80 

Bryan Perdue, 274 

Bulwer-Lytton, 282, 303-7, 313, 

324, 330 
Bunyan, 177, 187-191 
Burney, 216, 280-2, 283 
Burton, 251 



O 



Caedmon, 25, 41 

Caine, 303, 385 

Caleb Williams, 201, 273, 275- 

7 
Camilla, 281 
Canterbury Tales, 57, 105, 108, 

111, 119, 135, 140 
Captains Courageous, 410 
Captain Singleton, 209 
Carleton, 309, 375 
Caroline Evelyn, 280 
Carroll, 308, 374 
Casibus Virorum, 118 
Cassandre, 181 
Castle Rackrent, 282 
Castles of Athlen, 267 
Castle of Otranto, 200, 263-4, 

265 
Caxton, 63, 67, 68, 81, 94, 110, 

117, 140 
Caxtons, The, 304 



434 



INDEX 



Cecilia, 281 
Celt and Saxon, 360 
Cervantes, 248, 251 
Champion of Virtue, 264 
Chansons de Geste, 59, 74 
Characters, 161 
Characters of Virtues, 161 
Character Sketches, 161, 203 
Charlemagne Legend, 64, 65, 73, 

77 
Charles, 375 
Charles O'Malley, 309 
Charms, 6 
Chaucer, 55, 63, 67, 73, 105, 

108, 111, 113, 118, 119-126, 

130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 

136, 140, 1G3 
Chesterton, 357, 361 
Chettle, 177 
Child of Bristoiv, 113 
Children of the Ghetto, 386 
Children of the Mist, 398 
Christie Joh/iistone, 344 
Christian, The, 385 
Christian Changes, 24 
Christ's Descent, 33 
Chronica Major, 81 
Chronicle (Anglo-Saxon), 43, 

55 
Chronicle (Holinshed's), 180 
Cinq-Mars, 301 
Cinthio, 118 
Clarissa Harlowe, 200, 201, 

222-4 
Classical Matter, 66 
Classicism, 198 
Clayhanger, 387 
Cleg Kelly, 382 
Clelie, 181 
Collins, 308, 366 
Colloquies on Society, 307 
Colonel Jack, 209, 210 
Coming Race, 304 
Comte de la Charette, 94 
Confessio Amantis, 70, 105, 113, 

133, 140 
Coningsby, 318 
Conta/rini Fleming, 316 



Continuation of Arcadia, 172 

Cooper, 227, 301, 386 

Corelli, 386 

Country House, 405 

Craik (Mulock), 312, 342 

Cranford, 342, 343 

Crestien de Troyes, 79, 87, 92, 

94 
Crist, 33, 37 
Crochet Castle, 374 
Crockett, 370, 381, 382 
Croker, 309 

Cronycles of England, 81 
Crown of Life, 372 
Cumberland, 280 
Cursor Mundi, 116, 117 
Cynewulf, 32 



D 



Daniel, 26 

Daniel Deronda, 350, 351, 352 

Danish Influence, 4, 8, 47 

d'Arblay, 281 

David Balfour, 369 

David Simple, 200, 239 

Day, 171, 271 

Day of Judgment, 30 

Days of Auld Lang Syne, 381 

De Bello Trojano, 67 

de Borron, 99 

Decameron, 118, 120 

De Claris Mulieribus, 118 

De Excidio et Conquestu, 79 

Defoe, 100, 137, 143, 159, 161, 
162, 173, 177, 187, 189, 192, 
199, 200, 204-210, 211, 215, 
216, 233, 238, 263, 278, 311, 
368 

de France, Marie, 79 

Dekker, 171, 178-180 

Delectable Duchy, 403 

De Morgan, 395 

Demos, 372 

Dear's Complaint, 18, 21 

Derelicts, 400 

Desmond, 275 

Destiny, 311 



435 



INDEX 



Destruction of Troy, 67 

Detective Story, 307, 389 

de Troyes, Crestien, 79 

de Vigny, 301 

de Villeneuve, 106 

de Waurin, 81 

Diamond Ship, 386 

Diana of the Crossways, 358 

Diary of a Pilgrimage, 386 

Dickens, 173, 226, 227, 230, 
288, 290, 291, 292, 307, 313, 
314, 319-330, 334, 336, 337, 
340, 341, 342, 343, 351, 355, 
362, 366, 371, 379 

Dickenson, 152 

Disraeli, 282, 313-319, 330 

Don Quixote, 201, 229, 279 

Do7i Simonides, 152 

Doyle, 366, 379, 388-9 

Dream of the Rood, 33 

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 368, 
369, 370 

Dr. Thome, 356 

Dumas, 330, 389 

Du Maurier, 366 

Duchess of Newcastle, 145, 181- 
2 

Dryad, 380 



E 



Earle, 161 

East Lynne, 342, 375 

Ebers, 301 

Ecclesiastical History, 25 

Edgeworth, 184, 194, 272, 280, 

282-3, 309 
Egan, 322 

Egoist, The, 358, 359, 360 
Elene, 32, 33 
Eliot (Evans), 220, 290, 343, 

348-354, 355, 358, 359, 362, 

366, 378, 379, 383 
Ema/re, 89 
Emma, 290 

Endymion, 77, 314, 318 
English Adventures, 183 
English Arcadia, 172 



Erec, 94 

Erie of Toulouse, 89 
Ernest Maltravers, 304 
Eternal City, 385 
Euphues, 145, 167 
Euphues, His Censure, 151 
Euphuism, 145, 152, 155 
Evan Harrington, 358, 359 
Evelina, 201, 216, 280-1 
Eve's Ransom, 372 
Ewing, 375 
Exeter Book, 6, 32 
Exiles in Babylon, 375 
Exodus, 26 

Fabliaux, 61 

Fcerie Queen, 77 

Fair Jilt, 185 

Fair Syrian, 274 

Falls of Princes, 118, 135 

Farewell to the Military Pro- 
fession, 139 

Far from the Madding Crowd, 
365 

Fashionable Tales, 282 

Fates of the Apostles, 33 

Felix Holt, 350 

Fenelon, 145 

Fenton, 139 

Fenvjick's Career, 383 

Ferdinand Count Fathom, 241 

Ferrier, 311, 341 

Fielding, H., 173, 189, 194, 217, 
225, 228-239, 242, 248, 261, 
291, 328, 333, 363, 375, 379 

Fielding, S., 223, 239 

Finish of the Adventures of 
Tom, Jerry, and Logic, 323 

Fitz of Fitzford, 302 

Five Years, 312 

Florent, 133 

Flower of France, 380 

Folk Afield, 398 

Folk Tales, 57, 140 

Fool of Quality, 269, 271 

Ford, 160 



436 



INDEX 



Foreign Influences, 47, 48, 49, 
50, 55, 104, 135, 173, 181, 
379 

Fortunate Foundling, 216 

Fox, 180, 189 

Framley Parsonage, 356 

Frankenstein, 268, 307 

Fraternity, 406 

Friar and the Boy, 61 

Friar Bacon, 112, 181 

Friar Rush, 112 

From a College Window, 394 

From a Cornish Window, 403 

Fuller, 269 

Furze the Cruel, 397 



G 



Gaimar, 81 

Galsworthy, 405-6-7 

Gait, 301, 311 

Gargantua and Pantagruel, 144 

Gaskell, 324, 342-4, 350, 351 

Gawain Story, 96 

Genesis, 26, 27 

Gentleman of France, 386 

Geoffrey Hamlyn, 374 

Geoffrey of Monmouth, 55, 66, 

67, 80, 82, 83, 84, 86, 98 
George-a-Green, 141 
Gesta Romanorum, 73, 114 
Ghost of Guy, 113 
Gil Bias, 201 
Gissing, 9, 371-4 
God in the Car, 386 
God's Good Man, 386 
Godwin, 144, 269, 273, 275 
Golden Butterfly, 374 
Goldsmith, 195, 256, 258-262 
Gottfried von Strassburg, 92 
Gower, 70, 105, 113, 118, 132- 

134, 136, 140 
Grace Abounding, 187 
Grant, 310 
Gratton, 309 
Graves, 193, 201, 279 
Great Hoggarty Diamond, 331, 

338, 339 



Great Shadoic, 389 

Good and the Bad. 161 

Gothic Fiction, 262, 263, 266, 

268, 276, 295, 302, 307, 324 

345, 346, 366, 
Greene, 151, 152-160, 173, 178, 

311 
Green Fairy Book, 381 
Griffith, 278 
Grimeston, 139 
Groat's Worth of Wit, 154 
Guevara, 147 
Guido of Sicily, 67 
Guingamor, 87 
Gulliver's Travels, 145, 196, 210, 

212 
Guls Home Book, 172, 178, 179 
Guthlac, 33 
Guy of Wartoick, 57, 59, 139, 

181 



H 



Haggard, 355, 386 

Eajji Baba, 310 

Hakluyt, 180 

Hall, 161 

Handlyng Sinne, 81, 113 

Handy Andy, 304 

Hardy, 361-6, 369, 399 

Haring, 301 

Harington, 145 

Harold, 304, 305 

Harrowing of Hell, 30 

Harry Richmond, 359 

Hartland Forest, 302 

Havelok, 58, 65, 84 

Haven, The, 398 

Hawkins (Hope), 311, 370, 386 

Haws, 135 

Hawthorne, 227 

Haywood, 216-9 

Headlong Hall, 374 

Heart of Midlothian, 298 

Heather, 397 

Helbeck of Bannisdale, 383 

Henly, 266 

Henrietta Temple, 317, 



437 



INDEX 



Eenry, 280 

Henry Esmond, 330, 335, 337, 

338, 339 
Henry IV, 151 
Henry Richmond, 359 
Hereward, 57 
Hermsprong, 273, 275 
Hewlett, 386, 387 
Hichens, 407, 408 
Highlanders in Spain, 310 
Historia Britonum, 79 
Historic Tales, 269 
Historical Romance, 269 
History of Britain, 66 
History of Four-footed Beasts, 

149 
History of Lady Lucres, 139, 

140 
History of Serpents, 149 
History of the British Kings, 

66, 80, 98 
Holcroft, 274 
Holinshed, 180 
Holy Grail Legend, 54, 61, 84, 

94, 100 
Holy Living, 180 
Holy War, 189 
Homilies, 47 
Hook, 314, 322 
Horn, King, 57, 65 
Horn and Rimenhild, 57 
Horn Childe, 58 
House Beautiful, 375 
House of Fame, 135 
House under the Sea, 386 
Hugh Trevor, 274 
Hugo, 302 
Humphrey Clinker, 201, 242, 

246, 249 
Hypatia, 345 
Hystorie of Hamblet, 139 



Idalia, 216 
Idle Thoughts, 386 
Inheritance, 311, 341 
Injured Husband, 216 



He of Chils, 171 

Illustrious O'Hagan, 380 

II Teseide, 67 

Image in the Sand, 397 

Impressionism, 378 

In a Glass Darkly, 375 

Inchbald, 271 

Ingoldsby Legends, 312 

Initials, 341 

In King's Byioays, 386 

InloAid Voyage, 370 

In the Days of the Comet, 390 

In the Year of Jubilee, 372 

Invisible Man, 392 

Irish Dragoon, 309 

Irish Fiction, 309 

Island Pharisees, 405 

It Never Can Happen AgaAn, 

397 
Ivanhoe, 294, 296, 300 



Jack Shepard, 302 

Jack Wilton, 174 

James, G., 302, 330, 375 

James, H., 379 

James Wallace, 273 

Jane Eyre, 345, 346, 347 

Janet's Repentance, 350 

Jerome, 386 

Jocelyn, 405 

John Halifax, 312, 342 

John Inglesant, 374 

Johnson, 256-8, 259, 266, 280, 

299 
Johnstone, 262-3 
Jonathan Wild, 189, 200, 232 
Jonson, 151, 171, 173 
Joseph Andrews, 194, 200, 229, 

233, 234, 236 
Joseph of Exeter, 67 
Joseph Vance, 397 
Journal of the Plague Year, 

206, 210, 278 
Journal of the Voyage, 238 
Journey from this World, 232 
Jude the Obscure, 363 



438 



INDEX 



Judith, 41 

Julia de Rcmbigne, 279 

Juliana, 33 

Jungle Book, 410 

Junian MS., 27 



Kate Carnegie, 381 

Katerfelts, 374 

Kavanagh, 375 

Kenelm Chillingly, 304 

Kennedy, 301 

Kidnapped, 368, 369, 370 

Kim, 410 

Xmg' Richard, 269 

£^tw^ "Solomon's Mines, 386 

Kingsley, C, 270, 342, 346 

Kingsley, H., 374 

Kingston, 375 

Kipling, 311, 390, 409, 410, 411 

Kipps, 392 

Knight's Tale, 67, 119, 125 

Koran, 278 



La Chronique du Regne, 302 

Ladies Looking Gla^ss, 185 

Lady Good-for-Nothing, 403 

Lady Merton, 383, 384 

Lady Rose's Daughter, 383 

Z/tt Folie Tristan, 92 

La Freine, 90 

Lancelot, 94 

Lancelot Story, 94 

Lawrf of Cokayne, 61 

Lang, 381 

Langland, 54, 105, 111, 127- 

132, 134 
Last Chronicle of Barset, 356 
Last Days of Pompeii, 304, 305, 

307 
Last of the Barons, 304, 305 
Last of the Irish Sarpints, 309 
Launval, 88 
Lavengro, 344 
Layamon, 55, 60, 67, 80, 84 



Lee, 265 

Le Fann, 375 

Legend of Good Women, 118 

Le Grand Cyrus, 181 

Leland, 263 

Le Sage, 248, 337 

Le Morte Arthur, 95 

Lever, 309, 330 

Lewis, 268 

Life in London, 322 

Life's Morning, 372 

Lights and Shadows of Scottish 

Life, 301 
Literary Conditions, 110, 118, 

192 
Little Minister, 381 
Little Schoolmaster Ma/rk, 374 
Lives of the Saints, 62 
Livre des Eneydes, 68 
Locke, 398, 400-401-02 
Lodge, 151, 162-4, 173 
Longsword, 263 
Looking Backward, 145, 304 
Lorna Doone, 355 
Lothair, 318 

Love and Mr. Lewisham, 392 
Love in Excess, 216 
Lover, 282, 283, 309 
Lover's Watch, 185 
Lydgate, 67, 73, 118, 135-7, 140 
Lyly, 145-151, 155, 173 
Lyly's Imitators, 151 



M 

MacDonald, 374 

Mackenzie, 278 

Madeleine, 375 

Maiden and Married Life of 

Mary Powell, 375 
Malory, 92, 93, 94, 95, 101, 102, 

103, 110, 117, 125, 138, 140 
Mamillia, 153, 155 
Mammon and Co., 396 
Mandeville, 105, 134, 137 
Man from the North, 386 
Man in the Moon, 144 



439 



INDEX 



Manley, 182, 183-4, 203, 216, 

278 
Manning, 81, 84 
Man of Devon, 405 
Man of Feeling, 278 
Man of Law's Tale, 120 
Man of Property, 405 
Man of the World, 279 
Mansfield Park, 290 
Mansie Wauch, 312 
Map, 81, 84, 101 
Manzoni, 302 
Marcella, 383 

Margarite of America, 162 
Marie de France, 79, 87, 120 
Marjorie, 380 
Markham, 172 
Marriage, 311, 341 
Marriage a la Mode, 383, 384 
Marryat, 309 
Marsh, 375 

Martin Chuzzlewit, 321 
Martineau, 312 
Mary Barton, 342 
Master of Ballantrae, 368, 370 
Matter of Britain, 77 
Matter of France, 73 
Maturin, 308 
Maxwell, 310 
McCarthy, 309, 380 
Me and Myn, 382 
Melbancke, 152 
Mehnoth, 308 
Melville, 374 
Memorials of Gormandizing, 

331 
Memoirs of a Cavalier, 206 
Memoirs of a Certain Island, 

216 
Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, 

245 
Memoirs of Gaudentio, 145 
Memoirs of Martinus Scrib- 

lerus, 251 
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, 

389 
Menaphon, 151, 154, 157 
Men of the Moss Hags, 382 



Men of the Mountains, 382 

Meredith, 357-361, 362, 369 

Merely Mary Ann, 386 

Merlin, 83, 89 

Merlin Story, 98 

M6rimee, 301 

Mici'ocosmographie, 161 

Middlemarch, 350, 352, 353, 354 

Miller's Tale, 119 

Mill on the Floss, 343, 350, 351 

Minstrels, 56, 109 

Mirror of Modesty, 153, 155 

Miseries of Matnllia, 161 

Miss Betsy Thoughtless, 217 

Mitford, 312 

Moir, 312 

Moll Flanders, 209, 210 

Monastery, 151 

Monk, 268 

Monk's Tale, 118, 120, 135 

Montaigne, 145 

Moonstone, 308, 366 

Moorland Cottage, 343, 351 

Morals of Marcus Ordeyne, 400 

Morando, 153 

More, 142-5, 175, 307 

Morgan (Lady), 309 

Morier, 310 

Morning Star, 386 

Morris, 355, 367 

Morte Arthur, 102 

Morte Arthure, 117 

Morte d' Arthur, 81, 103, 117, 

125, 138, 140 
Morte d'Arthur Story, 102 
Mother of the Man, 398 
Mountfort, 171 
Mount Henneth, 274 
Mr. Badman, 189 
Mr. Gilfil's Love Story, 350 
Mr. Midshipman Easy, 310 
Mr. Polly, 391 
Mrs. Halleburton's Troubles, 

375 
Mulock (See Craik) 
Munday, 151 
Murder of Delicia, 386 
My Devon Year, 398 



440 



INDEX 



My Novel, 304 

Mysteries of Udolpho, 267 

N 

Nash, 153, 159, 164, 173-7, 178 

Nature and Art, 272, 273 

Nennius, G6, 79 

Nether World, 372 

Never Too Late to Mend, 311, 

344 
New Atlantis, 144 
New Canterbury Tales, 387 
Newcomes. 331, 335, 339 
New Grub Street, 372 
New Machiavelli, 392 
News from Hell, 178 
Nightmare Abbey, 374 
Nineteenth Century Social 

Changes, 284-5 
Nine Worthies, 71, 112 
Nibelungen Lied, 3 
Norman England, 50 
Norman Influences, 48, 49, 50, 

55, 104 
North and South, 342 
Northanger Abbey, 287 
Norton, 375 
Notre Dame, 302 
Novel of Manners, 278, 313 
Novel of Purpose, or Problem 

Novel, 262, 269, 292, 391 
Nun's Priest's Tale, 63, 120, 

122 



Occleve, 118 
Oceana, 145 
Odd Woman, 372 
O'Flynn, 381 
Ogilvies, 312 
Old Curiosity Shop, 326 
Old English Baron, 264 
Old Manor House, 265 
Old Mortality, 294, 296 
Old St. PoAil's, 375 
Old Wives' Tale, 388 



Oliphant, 375 

Oliver Cromwell, 302 

Opie, 341 

Ordeal of Richard Feverel, 358 

Orlando Furioso, 139 

Orm, 54 

Oroonoko, 185 

Our Village, 312 

Overbury, 161 

Owenson, 309 



Pair of Blue Eyes, 363 

Palace of Pleasure, 118, 139 

Palamon and Arcite, 68 

Paltoek, 201 

Pamela, 161, 200, 204, 200-222, 
229, 277, 278 

Pamdosto, 153, 155, 156 

Pan His Syrinx, 152 

Pardoner's Tale, 120 

Paris and Vienne, 117 

Paris, 81 

Parismus, 160 

Parthenissa, 182 

Passages in the Life of Mar- 
garet Maitland, 375 

Pastoral Called Arcadia, 171 

Patricia at the Inn, 397 

Paul Clifford, 304, 324 

Paulding, 301 

Pausanius, ^04 

Peacock, 374 

Pelham, 304 

Pemberton, 386 

Pendennis, 333 

People of the Mist, 386 

Peregrine Pickle, 200, 240, 242, 
243, 249 

Pericles, 70 

Persuasion, 290 

Peter Simple, 310 

Peter Wilkins, 201 

Phillips, 182 

Phillpotts, 39&-400 

Philomela, 158 

Philotimus, 152 



441 



INDEX 



Phoenix, 33 
Physiologus, 64 
Picaresque Tales, 173, 295 
Pickwick Papers, 323 
Pierce Penniless, 164, 174 
Piers Plovmian, 105, 111, 127 
Pilgrimage of Charlemagne, 75 
Pilgrims of the Rhine, 304, 306 
Pilgrim's Progress, 189 
Plain Man's Pathtcay, 188 
Plain Tales, 410 
Plato, 144 

Plutarch's Lives, 180 
Poe, 264, 308, 389 
Polexandre, 181 
Ponthus et Sidoine, 58 
Porter, 269, 277, 301, 306 
Paste with a Packet, 161 
Power of Love, 183 
Pownall, 269 
Practice of Piety, 188 
Prentiship, 177 
Pride and Prejudice, 287, 341, 

348 
Princess of Thule, 355 
Princess ^ophia^ 397 
Prioress' Tale, 120 
Prisoner of Zenda 386 
Prodigal Son, 385 
Prologue (Chaucer), 108, 111 
Pro Patria, 386 
Protestant, 302 
Puici, 118 



Quaint Dispute, 159 
Queen's Quair, 387 
Qwes^e de? ;S*. Graal, 101 
Quiller-Couch, 398, 402-5 

R 

Rabelais, 251 
Radcliffe, 266-8 
Raiders, 382 
Raleigh, 180 
Rasselas, 200, 256-8, 266 



Ravenswing, 331 

Reade, 283, 311 

Realism, 285, 311, 344, 355, 371 

Reaping, 397 

Recess, 265 

Recueil or Complete History of 
Britain, 81 

Recuyell of the Eistoryes of 
Troye, 67 

Reeve, 264, 269 

Reeve's Tale, 119 

Rememiranoes of Mrs. Overthe- 
way, 375 

Repentance, 154 

Republic (Plato's), 144 

Resurrection, 30 

Return of the Native, 363 

Return of Sherlock Holmes, 389 

Reynard the Fox, 63, 122, 140 

Rice, 374 

Richardson, 150, 161, 171, 173, 
182, 194, 197, 204, 209, 216, 
219-228, 229, 230, 231, 233, 
238, 239, 242, 248, 256, 277, 
278, 288, 289, 291, 344, 375 

Richard Yea and Nay, 387 

Riche, 139, 152 

Richelieu, 302 

Rienzi, 304, 305, 307 

Rise of Prose, 180 

River, The, 398 

Road in Tuscany, 387 

Robert Elsmere, 383 

Robert Falconer, 374 

Robert of Brunne, 58, 113 

Robert of Gloucester, 81, 84 

Robin Hood, 60, 111, 139, 141 

Robinson Crusoe, 137, 206, 207 

Roderick Random, 200, 201, 
240, 242, 246 

Roland and Vernagu, 76 

Romance of the Forest, 267 

Roman de Renart, 120 

Roman de Troie, 66 

Romanticism, 285, 355 

Romany Rye, 344 

Romaunt of the Rose, 105 

Rookwood, 302 



442 



INDEX 



Rosalynde, 151, 162, 167 
Rousseau, 186, 256, 271 
Rupert of Hentzau, 386 
Ruth, 343 

S 

Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos 
Barton, 350 

Saint's Everlasting Rest, 180 

Salem Chapel, 375 

Sanford and Merton, 271 

Sayings and Doings, 322 

Scenes from Clerical Life, 350, 
351 

Schonberg-Cotta Family, 375 

Scott, 151, 184, 220, 227, 261, 
263, 269, 277, 279, 282, 283, 
285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 
291, 292-301, 305, 306, 307, 
311, 324, 329, 330, 341, 344, 
348, 355, 356, 366, 367, 379, 
385, 386 

Scott's Disciples, 301-3 

Scudgry, 181 

Seafarer, 21 

Sea Fiction, 309 

Sea Wolves, 386 

Secret Intrigues, 216 

Secret Memoirs, 183 

Sense and Sensihility, 287, 288 

Sentimental Journey, 250 

Sentimental Tommy, 381 

Seven Sages, 113 

Shadow of a Crime, 385 

Shakespeare, 68, 70, 73, 77, 139, 
151, 152, 156, 162, 171, 187, 
251, 289, 297, 323, 341, 361 

She, 386 

Shelley (Mrs.), 268, 317 

Shipman's Tale, 120 

Shirley, 171 

Shirley, 346, 347 

Shorthouse, 374 

Sidney, 164-173 

Sege of Troy, 67 

Siegfried, 16 

Sigmund, 16 



Sign of the Four, 389 

Silas Marner, 350 

Silverado Squatters, 370 

Sinimes, 301 

Simon the Jester, 400 

Simple Story, 271, 272 

Simple Tales, 341 

Singular Adventures, 98 

Sir Charles Grandison, 150, 194, 

200, 201, 225-8 
Sir Cleges, 60 
Sir Degare, 89 
Sir Gawain and the Green 

Knight, 61, 96, 117 
Sir Gowghter, 89 
Sir Launcelot Greaves, 241 
Sir Orpheo, 89 
Sir Otuel, 76 

Sir Roger de Clarendon, 269 
Sir Roger de Coverley, 193, 

202-4, 298 
Sir Tristram, 92 
Sixth Book to Arcadia, 172 
Smith a/tid His Dame, 63 
Smith, C, 274 
Smith, H., 302 
Smollett, 173, 225, 239-249, 

252, 261, 262, 263, 288, 310 
Snaith, 397 
Sociable Letters, 182 
Somehow Good, 397 
Song of Roland, 3; 73 
Son of Ethelwulf, 269 
Son of Eagar, 385 
Sorrows of Satan, 386 
Spectator, 171, 202 
Speculum Meditantis, 133 
Spiritual Quixote, 193, 201, 279 
Squire of Low Degree, 71 
States and Empires, 144 
Steele, 192, 199, 200, 202-4, 

215 278 
Sterne, 197, 244-256, 278, 288, 

304, 306, 328 
Stevenson, 303, 366-371, 405 
St. Leon, 269, 277 
Stickit Minister, 382 
Stolen Bacillus, 390 



443 



INDEX 



Stories of Waterloo, 310 

Story of Thebes, 135 

Stowe, 342, 383 

Strange Fortunes, 161 

Straparola, 118 

Stuart of Dunleath, 375 

Stubbes, 109 

Study in Scarlet, 389 

Swinburne, 94 

Swift, 145, 196, 203, 204, 210- 

216, 270, 328, 335, 337 
Sybil, 318 



Tale of a Tul, 210, 211 

Tale of Sir Thopas, 124 

Tale of the Basin, 61 

Tales of Real Life, 341 

Tales of Terror, 307 

Talisman, 296 

Tancred, 318 

Tasso, 118 

Tatler, 202 

Tautphoeus, 341 

Taylor, 180 

Telemaque, 145 

Temple of Glas, 135 

Tenants of Wildfell Hall, 374 

Tennyson, 94, 96 

Ten Thousand a Year, 375 

Teseide, 119 

Tess of the D'TJrhervilles, 363, 

364, 365 
Thackeray, 236, 281, 292, 302, 

314, 315, 326, 329-341, 351, 

355, 362, 375, 379 
Thaddeus of Warsaw, 269 
Thebes, Story of, 67 
They and I, 386 
They That Walk in Darkness, 

386 
Thomas of Reading, 141 
Three Men in a Boat, 386 
Thyrza, 372 
Time Machine, 392 
Tom, Burke, 309 



Tom Jones, 200, 232-7, 278, 

333, 338 
Tono-Bungay, 389, 392 
Topsell, 149 

Toicer of London, 302, 375 
Tragical Discourses, 139 
Tragic Comedians, 358 
Traits mid Stories, 309, 375 
Tragic Muse, 379 
Travels (Mandeville) , 105, 137 
Travel Story, 20, 105, 137, 310 
Travels with a Donkey, 370 
Treasure Island, 368, 370 
Trelawney, 302 
Trevena, 397, 398 
Trilby, 366 
Tristram Shandy, 197, 200, 249, 

250, 251-6 
Tristram Story, 91 
Troilus and Cresseide, 67, 125, 

126 
Trollope, A., 355-7 
Trollope, Mrs., 341 
Troy Book, 67, 135 
Troy Legend, 64, 65, 66, 73, 77 
Troy Toivn, 403 
True Tilda, 403 
Tucker, 375 
Turk and Gawain, 97 

U 

Uncle Silas, 375 
Uncle Tom's Cabin, 187, 383 
Under the Red Rose, 386 
Unfortunate Traveller, 174 
Upton Letters, 394 
Urania, 172 
Usurpers, 400 
Utopia, 42, 175 



Yalentine and Orson, 117 
Vanity Fair, 314, 331, 332, 335, 

337, 338, 339, 340 
Yathek, 266, 316 



444 



INDEX 



Vicar of Wakefield, 195, 200, 

256, 258-262 
Villa Rubein, 405 
Vihette, 346, 348 
Virgil, 112, 141 
Virginians, 331, 335 
Vision of the Rood, 30 
Vivian Grey, 314, 316, 317 
Voltaire, 145 
Vox Clamantis, 133 
Voyages (Hakluyt), 180 

W 

Waee, 66, 67, 81, 84 

Walladmor, 301 

Walpole, 263, 265 

Wanderer (Anglo-Saxon), 19 

Wanderer (Maturin), 308 

Ward, 383-5 

Warden, 356 

War Fiction, 309 

War in the Air, 390 

War of the Worlds, 390, 392 

Warner, 152 

Warren, 375 

Watson, 312, 370, 380, 381 

WoA^erley, 282, 301, 303, 341 

Wayfarer, 397 

Wedding of Gaioain, 98 

Wells, 390-394 

Westward Ho, 342, 347 



Weyman, 370, 386 

When a Man's Single, 381 

When the Sleeper Wakes, 390, 

392 
White, 269 
White Company, 389 
Wickliffe, 54, 105, 107 
Widsith, 6, 16, 21, 35, 41 
William of Newburgh, 80 
William of Palerne, 71, 112, 117 
Wilson, 301 

Window in Thru/ms, 381 
Windsor Castle, 302 
Wdman in White, 308, 366 
Wood, 341, 375 
Woodstock, 294 
Wroath, 172 
Wuthering Heights, 345 



Teast, 342 

Yellow Fairy Book, 381 

Tellowplush Papers, 331 



Zangwill, 386, 388 
Zanoni, 306 
Zelauto, 151 
Zelmane, 171 
Zola, 372 



445 



JUL 11 19^2 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



013 975 455 4 



